CIHM 
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Series 
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microfiches 
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a 


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lOx 

14x 

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22x 

26x 

30x 

J 

12x 


16x 


20x 


24x 


28x 


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othar  original  capias  ara  filmad  beginning  on  tha 
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or  illustratad  impression. 


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required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  imagas  suivantes  ont  #t*  raproduites  avec  le 
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filmaga. 

Les  exemplairas  originaux  dont  la  couvarture  en 
pepier  est  imprimee  sont  filmes  en  commen^ant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
darniire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  la  second 
plat,  salon  la  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmte  an  commen^ant  par  la 
premiAre  paga  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  at  en  terminant  par 
la  darniAre  paga  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  dee  symboles  suivents  apparaitra  sur  la 
darniire  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  salon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  ^-^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE".  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Las  cartas,  planches,  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  atre 
filmAs  A  des  taux  da  reduction  difftrants. 
Lorsqua  la  document  est  trop  grand  pour  etre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  filme  ^  partir 
de  Tangle  supirieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas.  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'imagas  n*cessaire.  Les  diagrammas  suivents 
illustrent  le  methode. 


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THE  HANDICAP 


.i*\i 


Bv    Robert    E.     Knowlcs 


The  Hand  nap 

The  Atttc   Guest 

A  Story  of  the  South  and  North 

The  Web  of  Time 

A  Romance  of  the  Human  Heart 

The  Undertow 

A  Tale  of  Both  Sides  of  the  Sea 

St.    Cuthbert's 

A  Parish  Romance 

The  Daun  at  Shanty   Bay 

Decorated  and  Illustrated  by 
Griselda  M.  McClure 


THE  HANDICAP 


A    NOyRL     OF 
PIONEER   DATS 


ROnERT  E.  KNOIVLES 

Autho.  of'St.  Cuthbert's,"  "  The  Attie 
Gut  it"  etc.,  etc. 


New    York       Chicago      Toronto 

Fleming  H.  Rev  ell  Company 

London         and        Edinburgh 


'  '-8l 


--ff.  _  ,a 


128959 


Copyright,    1910,  by 
FLEMING  H.   KKVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  „S  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicn.^o:  80  Wnbnsh  Avenue 
Toronto:  2S  Richmond  Street,  W. 
Paternoster  Square 
100    Princes    Street 


I 


London 
Edinburgh 


^?.1%J./?' 


I 


I. 
ir. 
III. 

IV. 
VI. 

vn. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 

xxiri. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

xxvu. 


CONTENTS 

The  Home-Seekers 
DiNNv's  Tkeat 
An  Irish  Heart  Makes  Bold 
The  Fight  Among  the  Pines 
The  Victory  of  Surrender 
••  Kings  May  be  Blest,  Bur 


The  Compassion  of  the  Pure 

The  "Churching"  of  Mar(;aret 

The  Debate  Across  the  Bar 

A  Face  in  Memory's  Hall 

The  Chase— By  the  Cedar  Creek 

Mr.    Hilliard   Convalescent— an 
municative 

How  DiNNY  Coached  the  Orator 

Music  Hath  Charms— Sometimes 

An  Elder  Unordained 

A  Gallant  Knight,  Sir  Arthur  ! 

"  Not  Accepting  Deliverance  " 

DiNNY  THE  Diplomat 

"  The  Injudeecious  Use  " 

DiNNY  THE  Debater 

When  a  Woman  Pleads  . 

When  the  Devil  D.  >ves 

The  Hitter  Fruit  of  Victory 

An  Heir  by  Honour  Bound 

The  Right  Hon.,  the  Premier 

Sir  John  A.'s  Handiwork 

"  And  the  Shadows  Flee  Away  " 


M 


ENZI 


ES 


Co 


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9 
-) 
44 
60 
Si 

'>)' 
116 

•25 
•36 
164 
1 80 

198 
214 
226 

HI 
261 

268 

275 

2VO 

33' 

344 
362 

378 


\y-i'<'^ 


THE  HANDICAP 


«( 


A 


THE   HOME-SEEKERS 


N'  how  far  might  it  be  to  Liddel's  Corners 
now,  boss  ?  " 

The  man  who  as'ced  the  question 
seemed  very  much  in  earnest  about  it  and  his  tone, 
which,  by  the  way,  was  distinctly  Irish,  impHed  that 
considerable  hung  upon  the  answer. 

As  one  sets  down  the  commonplace  inquiry  after 
the  long  lapse  of  years  it  certainly  sounds  insignifi- 
cant enough.  But  it  was  quite  a  different  matter  to 
the  rosy-cheeked  traveller  that  frosty  winter  morning 
as  the  heavily-laden  stage  made  its  creaking  way 
along  the  primitive  road  that  led  from  Hamilton  to 
Glen  Ridge. 

Nor  did  the  question  seem  a  trifling  one  to  the 
other  occupants  of  the  four-seated  sleigh,  if  quick 
and  eager  glances  in  the  direction  of  the  driver  may 
be  considered  evidences  of  interest.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  some  of  them  stirred  a  little  in  their  seats  as 

9 


1^ 


li 


.^iriiw 


10 


THE   HANDICAP 


they  awaited  an  answer  from  the  fur-clad  figure  in 
tlic  front,  the  aforesaid  figure  all  engrossed  with  the 
duty  of  the  hour  as  he  guided  his  smoking  team, 
now  urging  them  almost  to  a  gallop  when  some  level 
stretch  invited,  now  slowing  to  a  walk  as  some  yawn- 
ing  pitch -hole  showed  before. 

The  day  was  cold,  as  became  a  Canadian  winter; 
the  thermometer,  if  any  of  the  travellers  had  had  one! 
would  have  shown  the  mercury  skulking  around 
zero;  there  was.  too,  a  gusty  httle  wind  from  the 
east,  quite  too  inquisitive  for  comfort.  So  it  was  no 
wonder  that  the  eager  voyagers  showed  a  lively  in- 
terest in  the  matter  of  Lid.id's  Corners  and  "their 
proximity  thereto. 

The  driver,  however,  was  in  no  hurry  with  his  re- 
ply.    A    few  of  the  occupants  of  the  sleigh  knew 
right  well  that  no  immediate  answer  would  be  given 
—but  these  exceptions  were  residents  of  Glen  Ridge 
and   they  knew  Judd  too  well  for  that.     Probably 
they  themselves  were  quite  ignorant  of  the  driver's 
second  name,  but  they  knew  Judd-which  was  the 
most  ,  I  him.  as  it  is  of  nearly  all  professional  Jehus— 
and  they  were  well  aware  that  he  would  have  to  re- 
flect a  little  before  any  answer  would  be  given  ;  such 
reflections  to  be  concerned,  indeed,  not  with  the  dis- 
tance to  Liddcls  Corners  or  any  other  spot  on  this 
terraqueous  globe,  but  with  the  fact  that  he  himself 


— »*r>r»-*:-™Er5a 


.  r»^  5.2-73^  ^-.    -  mm^ 


The   HOME. SEEKERS  ,, 

uas  driver,  conductor,  cicerone  of  tl>cse  immigrants 
entrusted  to  Im  care;  and.  more  important  st.ll  tl.at 
he  nad  been  all  of  these  almost  ever  since  newcun>crs 
•rom  across  the  sea  had  first  sought  this  particular 
settlement  amid  Canadian  forests. 

"An"  how  far  might  it  be  now  ?_Sure  it  was 
farder  when  I  asked  3-e  last."  came  again  from  the 
rubicund  one  in  the  hindmost  seat  of  the  sleigh. 
There  was  a  whimsically  plaintive  note  in  the  voL 
this  time ;  the  Hibernian  accent,  too,  was  a  little  more 
pronounced.  Perhaps  this  was  because  he  turned  as 
he  spoke  and  smiled  down  into  the  face  of  the  little 
girl  beside  him,  which,  uplifted  to  his  own,  betrayed 
a  father's  features  with  almost  startling  faithfulness. 

The  driver  moved  a  little  in  his  seat,  his  right 
hand,  encased  in  a  heavy  buckskin  mitt,  rising  slowly 
to  remove  a  massive  wooden  pipe  from  a  very  ca- 
pacious mouth  ;  being  in  the  neighbourhood  thereof, 
It  was  also  drawn  emphatically  across  the  base  of  a 
rather  dewy  nose,  thus  saving  an  extra  trip  to  that 
locality.  Then  he  spoke,  but  in  a  tone  that  indicated 
he  did  not  have  to. 

"  It's  nine  miles  to  the  Corners  :  nine  miles_an'  a 
bit."  slowly  replacing  the  heavy  pipe  and  gripping  it 
with  two  rows  of  yellow  teeth  in  a  way  that  indi- 
cated  all  such  irregularities  were  at  an  end.  for  a  time 
at  least. 


12 


7HE   HANDICAP 


"  Nine  miles,"  his  inquirer  echoed  cheerfully,  «<  that's 
nothin'— sure  that's  only  a  mile  a  piece,"  a  pair  of 
semi  serious,  semi-merry  eyes  numbering  the  passen- 
gers as  he  spoke. 

"But  who  gets  the  bit?"  came  from  a  muffled 
form  hnsidc  him  on  the  seat. 

"  Yon  man,"  responded  the  other  without  a  pause, 
nodding  towards  a  figure  in  the  middle  of  tho' 
sleigh,  conspicuous  in  a  tam-o'-shanter  and  a 
plaid. 

"What  makes  you  think  he'll  get  the  extra?" 
returned  the  decidedly  cultured  voice  of  his  com- 
panion, pursuing  the  conversation  for  want  of  other 
employment. 

"Sure  he's  Scotch,"  retorted  the  Hibernian; «« it's 
the  bits  that's  made  them  fellows— that's  what's  give 
them  the  earth  an'  the  fullness  thereof.  Have  ye 
annything  to  say  agin  that,  Sandy  ?  "  as  he  leaned  a 
little  forward  towards  the  grim  figure  in  the  scat  be- 
fore him. 

But  the  Scotchman  was  in  no  mood  for  humour. 
"  Ye're  verra  gleg  wi'  the  tongue,  my  frecn',"  he  re- 
plied icily,  "  but  if  the  earth  ^/^  belong  to  us,  d'  ye 
ken  the  first  thing  we'd  dae  wi'  pairt  o'  't  ?  "  As 
the  Scot  came  nearer  the  end  of  his  speech  he  hur- 
ried noticeably,  for  the  splendour  of  his  repartee 
grew  upon  hir.      -  he  spoke. 


'%w^m'^v^.-i^m-^'Lw:m^m.  .^-'^■m^^^i 


The   HOME-SEEKERS  i^ 

"  Sure  I  don't  that,"  the  man  behind  him  admitted 
cheerfully.     "  What  might  it  be,  now  ?  " 

"  We'd  sink  yon  wee  island  ye  cam'  frae  unnerthe 
sea— we'd  drop  ye  a'  aneath  the  water  for  an  hour 
ci  twa." 

"  Faith,   then,  that'd  be  the  first  thing  yez  ever 
dropped  after  ye  got  yer  paws  on  it,"  was  the  frank 
response.     "But    for    Hivin's    sake,   don't   mention 
watter  on  a  day  like  this.     Watter  !  "  he  repeated, 
shivering,  "  it's  enough  to  freeze  the  insides  o'  ye, 
talkin*  about  the  hkes  o'  that  when  we're  all  sittin' 
wid  our  tongues  out,  waitin'  for  Liddel's  Corners  to 
kape  the  breath  o'  life  i    us.     There  isn't  anny  Scotch 
about  fou,  my  friend,  except  that  there  balloon  ye've 
got  on  top  o'  ye— if  there  was,  it's  hydryphoby  ye'd 
be  havin'  at  the  thoughts  o'   watter  on  a  day  Hke 
this— in   a   furrin   country,  too,  when  a  man  wants 
something  to  warm  the  heart  of  him.     I  see  that 
rightly,"  and  the  impeachment  was  concluded  with 
divers  empl- itic  shakes    of  the  head  in  the  direction 
of  the  heresy  he  deplored. 

The  tam-o'-shanter  could  be  seen  nodding  once 
or  twice  as  though  the  head  beneath  were  agitated 
with  some  idea  that  either  could  not  or  would  not 
be  expressed— there  is  deep  pathos  in  the  many 
brilliant  things  of  which  Scotchmen  are  still  undelivered 
before  they  die— and  silence  fell  again  upon  the  com- 


|.^ifV^^^>  TaWir?^:vr*;^i; 


'4 


THE   HANDICAP 


pany.     Onward  glided  th^  slcij;h,  leaving,  behind  a 
track  of  silvery  sheen  ;  bravely  plodded  the  sn.oking 
team,  the  monotonous  jinj^le  of  their  bells  resolving 
Itself  .nto  a  kind  of  tune;  silently  the  towering  oak 
and  p.ne  and  maple  and  elm,  sentinels  of  a  thousand 
years,  looked  down  upon  the  little  squad  of  travellers 
whom  poverty,  or  enterprise,  or  adventure's  lure  had 
beguiled  from  various  stations  across  the  sea  to  the 
glorious   uncertainty  of  Western   wilds.     Dark  and 
wondering  glance,  not  a  few  were  cast  towards  these 
deep  and  almost  pathless  woods  as  the  immigrants 
were   borne  along   the   forest  avenue;    what,   they 
seemed   to   ask.  might  not  be  liidden  within  those 
vast    anJ    silent   caverns  ?-what.   they  seemed    to 
fear,  can   be   found   therein    for  the  sustenance   of 
man  ? 

Half  an  hour,  or  nearly  that,  must  have  expired  in 
auost  unbroken  silence  when  the  little  caravan  passed 
slowly    over   a   rudely-constructed    bridge,    beneath 
which  there  flowed  a  fairly  generous  stream  whose 
-usic  even  the  rigour  of  such  a  winter  had  failed  to 
hnsh.     Partly  covered  with  ice,  the  central  current 
was  still  unfrozen  ;  and  the  liquid  melody  floated  up- 
wards,   mingling    with    the    tinkling   bells.     Every 
weary  ex-Ie  seemed  to  turn  and  look,  even  drowsy 
eyes  greeting  it  with  a  look  of  welcome. 
"  That's  the  same,  annyway^thank  God."  came 


T!r''^~^    ilili     iirWliiil 


'  ^"'^ 


-'Xu^t .  t. 


imL: 


The   HOME-SEEKERS  i^ 

reverently  enough  from  the  son  of  Erin's  Isle.  The 
long  silence  had  been  distasteful  to  him,  as  it  is  to 
most  of  that  cordial  race. 

"  What's  the  r^amc  ?  "  returned  the  man  beside  h:m, 
without  looking  around. 

"  That  there  little  brook— sure  it's  Irish  it's  talkin' 
—when  I  shut  my  eyes  an'  listen,  I  could  think  I'm 
back  in  dear  ould  Donegal  again.  It's  the  twin  sister 
of  a  little  stream  I  paddled  in  when  I  was  a  broth  of 
a  boy— an'  it  was  niver  as  dear  to  me  heart  as  it  is 
this  day,"  and  the  Celtic  voice  had  a  mournful  note 
of  reminiscent  tenderness. 

••  Then  you're  from  Ireland?  "  said  his  companion. 
"  I  am  that— an'    Hiven  bless  the  name,"  was  the 
fervent  response. 
"  Going  to  Glen  Ridge  ?  "  ventured  the  other. 
The  immigrant  nodded,  giving  an  extra  pull  at  the 
buffalo  robe  the  while,  and  feeling  the  hands  of  the 
little  girl  to  see  if  they  were  cold.     "  That's  where 
I'm  bound  for.     Tim  coaxed  me  to  come.     He  went 
to  school  wid  me,  did  Tim— Tim  Loftus.     He  said  as 
how  it  wasn't  much  of  a  place  for  a  workin'  man- 
but  he's   sellin'   out  to  me.     I'm  goin'  to  take  his 
business— goin'  to  try,  annyway." 

"  Tim    Loftus,"   the   other  repeated   quietly ;   "  I 
knew  him.     I  knew  Tim  well." 
The  Irishman  swung  around  as  eagerly  as  though  he 


ti 


i6 


7HE   HANDICAP 


had  discovered  an  old  friend.     "  Ve  don't  mean  It- 
well,  now,  don't  that  bate  all?     Timmie  was  nothin' 
but  a  work;n'mPn  in  Ireland.     He  hated  it  too.     Tim 
never  liked  wo.-k-but  he  liked  his  pay  terrible  well, 
did   Timmie."   a  touch  of  endearment  in  the  tone! 
"  So  wan  day  he  threw  his  hod  to  the  di vii.  did  Tim— 
an-  he  went  to  Ameriky.     He  borrowed  five  pound 
from   my   father-my   father   kept  the  Hlack  liul! ; 
ye'U   mebbe   have  heard   tell   o'  the  Jilack  Bull  in 
Kilkarty?_an'  Tim.  he  thought  hed  try  the  same 
kind  o-  business  in  Ameriky.     Might  ye  live  in  Glen 
Rich,    when    ye're  at    home,  sir?"     he   suddenly 
digressed  to  inquire. 

"Glen  Ridge,"  the  other  corrected  quietly— 
"  Ridge,  not  Rich." 

"  Och,  well,  it's  the  same  thing,"  the  Celt  responded 
cheerfully;  -  callm  a  thing  rich  don't  make  it  rich, 
begorra,  does  it  now  ?  An'  what  might  ye  do  in 
Glen-What-D'ye-Call-It?  What  might  be  yer  busi- 
ness, I  mean  ? " 

The  older  man  smiled  as  he  turned  a  little  to  look 
into  the  face  of  his  questioner.  The  noble  kindliness 
of  the  whole  countenance,  especially  of  the  large  and 
searching  eyes,  could  hardly  have  failed  to  impress  a 
much  les3  discerning  mind  than  that  of  his  Irish 
fellow  traveller. 

"  I'm  a_well,"  he  began  a  little  hesitatingly, "  well, 


niiiitiiiiriMiniiiiiiii  HI    iiiiiiiiiiiii  II  iiiiiim irnMiiiiiiii  iiiiiniiimiiiii      m^ i 


7he   HOME-SEEKERS  17 

y    I'm  a  working  man  myself.     Yes,  I'm  a  kind  of  a 
working  mai.." 

"Who  might  ye  wcrk  for?"  the  other  promptly 
questioned. 

"  Oh— well,  for  several  people.     Yes,  I  work  for  a 
lot  of  different  folks." 

"  Indeed,"  replied  his  companion,  evidently  a  little 
mystified  ;  "  an'  d'ye  have  long  hours,  sir  ?  " 

"Rather  l-.ig— yes,  decidedly  !jng,"  and  the 
strong,  gentle  face,  half  hidden  by  an  ample  muffler, 
could  be  seen  to  smile, 
"  Ye'll  be  gettin'  high  wages,  I  dars  say  ?  " 
The  answer  was  a  little  long  in  coming.  "  Well, 
yes,  in  a  certain  sense.  Yes,  I'm  pretty  well  paid! 
I  don't  get  much  money,  it's  true— but  I  consider 
myself  well  paid,"  and  the  grave  eyes  looked  far  on 
towards  the  soft  fringe  of  hills  beyond  which  he 
knew  Glen  Ridge  was  nestling  in  the  valley. 

A  moment  later  he  turned  his  gaze  upon  his 
questioner,  curious  to  observe  what  impression  his 
somewhat  enigmatical  speech  had  made ;  a  glance 
was  enough  to  assure  him  that  the  Irishman  was 
but  little  concerned  with  the  conversation  in  which 
he  had  borne  a  part.  For  his  eyes  were  intent  upon 
something  straight  ahead  of  him,  and  his  hne  of 
vision  was  directly  between  the  horses'  bended 
heads.     Very  intently  did  he  gaze,  and  an  o-         v.- . 


Mfr'l 


7'«f " 


|8 


"THE  HANDICAP 


«  c  m,Bl„  have  ,J..ec,cd  a  ,.,„l,„i„B  pi,„  „„  ^. 
^^•"Kcr  II,  the  sicipl,   w..r,.  f.  »        .  '■^'■'ypas. 

^■:— ^- ^iXcurr''™"''^'""'^ 

i^v'o  Juiman  forms  could   bo  .1.       •    i 
on  r,    ^      'rh»  ilcscned.   and  both 

""  "  ^"*^  0"«  \vas  .1  woman's   ». II        i     , 

with  f    nnir     ..  "'^"  ^' *'*''  and  slender, 

'   ""    as     best   they   conld.     Her    rr^rh  .- 

«--e     as     .He     ,„._„„  'l^  ^  .T  r 

-ed  sad,,  i„adec...  Tor  ,„e  season'p,:    TJ: 

T     "   "'=='"''   ^"'=''   ="■    "-friendly  day     A   11 
"Ipaca  skirt    fluttered   in   ,he  „.in/  .,  ,        '^ 

-"'0  be  seen  such  Jsiery  a  ;;«'";'  '''T 
'^-Jan„ary,and,ra,i,es;:  !:J;:;:'" 
«..nnests„ea.,.„frub.er,itson,yad™C  l:,^ 


t??^^ 


j?ipp;'jiKis-^"'AX 


The   HOME. SEEKERS  ,9 

to  prevent  her  slipping,'  as  she  walked.  Light  knitted 
gloves  were  on  her  hands,  and  a  small  straw  bonnet, 
still  boasting  a  sohtary  flower,  was  ail  she  had  upon 
her  head.  The  "  clojj;  or  mufllcr,  that  protected 
the  youngsters  ears  and  face  was  evidently  her  own, 
transferred  with  womanly  unselfishness  to  the  brave 
lad  beside  her. 

"  Will  it  near  be  Glen  Ridge  now,  mother  ?  "  the 
little  fellow  asked  as  he  puffed  along,  clinging  des- 
perately to  the  outstretched  hand  and  adjusting  his 
words  with  childish  inaccuracy. 

••  It  won't  be  so  very  far  now,"  the  woman's  voice 
answered,  a  surge  of  pity  in  it ;  -  are  you  tired, 
my  son  ?  " 

"  Yes,  awful,"  the  child's  voice  came  back,  quite  a 
little  pause  between  the  words,  due  to  a  plaintive 
little  spurt  as  he  trotted  a  brief  yard  or  so  to  re- 
assure the  heart  he  somehow  felt  was  heavier  than 
his  own. 

Silence  for  a  minute.  Then  "  I'm  awful  hungry 
too,"  came  in  little  puffing  installments  from  the 
youthful  pilgrim;  "isn't  there  another  cookie, 
mother?"  his  face  turned  a  moment  towards  her  as 
he  spoke. 

"  I'm  afraid  not,  child,"  and  the  words  seemed  to 
hurt  the  mother  as  they  came.  "  You  know  I  told 
you  that  last  one  was  the  last,  didn't  I,  dear  ?  " 


»yD^?HLY^^Ki^T:-^i^h£Si^;^''/iL"II^ 


20 


'THE   HANDlC/iP 


"  Yes,"  the  boyish  hps  pouted.  "  but  maybe  there's 
one  more,  mother-lefs  look  again  ;  then  I  won't 
ask  any  more— but  let's  look." 

The    sadness    of   the   woman's    face   was   rather 
deepened  than   relieved   by  the   fleeting  smile  that 
played   upon  it  as  she  leaned  over  towards  the  boy 
that  he  might  himself  examine  the  little  embroidered 
bag  that   hung   from   her   bosom,  suspended    by  a 
stnng  about  her   neck.     A   half    whimpering    cry 
escaped    the  pouting  lips,  silenced  soon  by  a  few 
crumbs  that  he  had  eagerly  scraped  from  the  bottom 
of  the  empty  reticule. 

"  It's  all  gone  now."  he  said  at  length,  looking  up 
w,th  very  trustful  eyes  into  the  face  that  was  bended 
on  h.s  own.  -  Let's  go  fast ;  I'm  awful  hungry- 
will  Uncle  Arthur  give  us  dinner  when  we  ^et 
there?"  *" 

"  Yes.  dear-oh,  yes,  he'll  give   us  lots  of  lovely 
thmgs.     I'm    sure,   I'm   almost   sure   he   will"   the 
M'oman  answered  as  cheerfully  as  she  could.     Yet  an 
observant   eye    could    hardly   have    failed    to    note 
the   cloud  of  hesitation,  almost  of  fear,  that  flitted 
across    her    face.     Suddenly,   however,   before    .he 
had    time    to   add   another   word,   a  quick   motion 
of    her    head    and    a    romewhat    prolonged    ga.^ 
behind   showed   that   something   had  attracted   her 
attention. 


> 


The   HOME-SEEKERS  2\ 

"  It's  bells  ! "  the  boy  broke  out  forthwith ;  "  it's 
sleigh-bells,  mother— and  we'll  get  a  ride,  won't 
we,  mother  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so,  m>  child,"  was  the  response,  her  pace 
unconsciously  growing  slower,  the  sleigh  coming 
fast  behind  them  now.  "  Come.  Irwin,"  as  she  stooped 
and  half  gathered  the  child  in  her  arms,  holding  him 
up  as  she  stepped  out  into  the  deep  snow  beside  the 
road.  She  shivered  as  her  feet  and  ankles  sank  in 
the  ice-cold  wave;  not  for  the  first  time  that  day 
had  she  thus  stood  and  seen  some  already  laden 
sleigh  pass  her  by  with  nothing  but  a  friendly  nod 
from  its  unknown  inmates. 

"  Are  they  going  to  Uncle  Arthur's  too,  mother  ?  " 
the  boy  whispered  as  the  snorting  team  was  almost 
abreast  of  them,  the  steam  flying  from  their  dilated 
nostrils  out  on  the  wintry  air. 

"Hould  there,  begorra— stop  them  bloods  there, 
driver,"  suddenly  rang  out  in  an  imperious  voice 
from  the  rear  as  the  caravan  swept  past  the  tall 
figure  in  the  snow.  "  Hould  yer  horses  till  we  bid 
these  folks  the  time  o'  day." 

Something  in  the  voice  must  have  given  the  driver 
pause.  At  any  rate,  he  slowly  reined  his  hoary 
team.  "  What's  the  row  about  ?  "  he  asked  sullenly, 
turning  his  head  a  little  in  the  direction  of  his  left 
shoulder.     He  was  a  professional  driver,  with  only 


i2 


THE   HANDICAP 


one  end  in  view — and  that  was  either  one  end   or 
the  other  of  his  tri  weekly  route. 

"There  isn't  anny  row — not  yet,  annyway," 
was  the  pacific  rejoinder;  "  but  we're  not  goin'  by  a 
flag  o' distress  hke  that — are  ye   blind,  I   dLinno?'' 

"No,  I  ain't,"  the  driver  answered  snappishly; 
"  what  did  you  want  me  to  see  ?  " 

"  Them  there  passengers,"  camr  the  answer  in 
perfect  good  humour.  "  It's  lookin'  out  for  fares  ye 
ocht  to  be,  instead  of  gallivantin'  past  them,  like  as 
if  they  were  bulrushes  wid  niver  a  soul  to  save." 
This  elaborate  sentence  was  trailed  behind  him  as 
he  sprang  from  the  sleigh,  hurrying  back  to  the 
humble  pair  who  had  now  regained  the  road.  The 
woman's  head  was  bowed,  in  evident  confusion  ;  but 
the  child,  his  glee  unhidden,  had  broken  loose  from 
her,  the  tired  little  feet  gathering  a  new  lease  of 
strength  as  he  toddled  eagerly  forward  towards  the 
now  un moving  sleigh. 

"  What  passengers  ?  "  roared  the  driver,  evidently 
in  high  dudgeon  at  thi    sudden  interference. 

"  Them  passengers  that's  Avalkin'— I'll  soon  show 
ye,"  was  the  calm  response,  again  flung  over  his 
shoulder  as  the  man  hurried  on  his  mission  ;  "  come, 
ye  little  spalpeen,  I'll  load  ye  in  a  jiff)r_ril  carry 
him,  ma'am.  Och,  sure,  he's  no  weight  at  all,  just 
like  a  thimble  on  an  elephant.     Sure  J  could  carry 


■The    HOME-SEEKERS  23 

the  pair  o'  ye  and  never  know  I  was  at  it,"  as  he 
dropped  a  very  decent  courtesy  to  the  halt-protesting 
woman. 

But  he  had  retraced  his  way  for  only  a  step  or  two 
when  he  broke  out  in  a  kind  of  half  wail,  half  hou  1 : 
"Holy  Mother,  Jumpin'  Bejabers— d'je  see  that? 
What   the— wliat   the   divil    does    he    oican  ?     Mi  ! 

stop— stop  the  varmint  or  I'll " 

And   t.  ;re  was  just  cause  for  this  sudden    con- 
sternation.    For  the  ill-natured  Jehu  had  suddenly 
chirruped  to  his  horses  and  started  them  at  a  brisk 
pace  towards  home.     "  Let  him  walk  if  he  wants  to," 
he  muttered  as  the  team  bounded  forward ;  "  can't 
wait  for  every  fool  that  wants  to  get  off  an'  pick  ber- 
ries along  the  road,"  wherewith,  nodding  and  chuck- 
ling grimly  to  himself,  he  settled  down  firmly  in  his 
seat,  to  show  that  he  was  a  man  not  to  be  trifled  with 
But  just  as  the  teaifl^  glad  to  be  released,  were  set- 
tUng  down  to  what  bade  fair  to  be  a  really  spanking 
gait,  there  was  a  swift  movement  in  the  seat  the 
Irishman  had  just  deserted  ;  and  a  tall,  muffled  figure 
began  slowly  creeping  along  the  narrow  outside  rail, 
stead)'ing  himself  on  such  shoulders  as  Mere  nearest 
while  he  stole  onward  to  the  front  of  the  sleigh.     Ik- 
fore  the  driver  knew  he  was  there,  a  hand  had^ipped 
the  reins,  and,  with  a  strength  remarkable  for  so  awk- 
ward a  position,  had  checked  the  horses'  pace  with  a 


1i 


24 


THE   HANDICAP 


D  t 


backward  jerk  that  the  driver  himself  could  hardly 
have  excelled.  "  Stop  them— stop  those  horses, 
Jiidd,"  came  in  a  low  voice  from  a  very  resolute  pair 
of  lips  as  a  couple  of  keen  eyes  fastened  themselves 
on  the  scowling  face  beneath  him. 

The  man  cowed  before  the  look.  '■  I  didn't  know 
—I  didn't  know  you  wanted  to  wait,  your  Rever- 
er.ce,"  he  began  abashedly,  at  the  same  time  reining 
the  horses  to  a  walk ;  "  I  thought  you'd  be  cold,  Dr. 
Leitch— I  thought  you  was  in  a  hurry." 

"  And  you'd  leave  those  poor  creatures  to  freeze 
on  the  road,  would  you  ?  Stop  those  horses— stop 
them  still ! " 

"  They're  hard  to  hold,  sir,"  the  man  nmttered 
apologetically ;  "  they're  restless  this  cold  weather— 
that's  what  made  them  start  so  sudden,  sir,"  his 
whole  demeanour  indicating  that  he  was  dealing  with 
some  one  whom  he  held  in  wholesome  revere.ice. 

"  1'hat's  all  right,  Judd— I  know  you  did  it  thought- 
lessly," came  in  the  kindliest  voice  from  the  older 
man,  now  descending  from  the  sleigh  and  starting  on 
his  way  to  meet  the  trudging  three  who  were  by  this 
time  close  behind. 


II 

D/NNY'S   TREAT 


A  MINUTE  or  two  later  the  woman  and  her 
child  had  been  Hfted  into  the  conveyance, 
the  two  escorts  climbirg  in  behind  them, 
one  on  each  side  of  the  woman,  who  held  her  boy 
upon  her  lap.  "  Now  lay  on  the  bud,"  was  the 
cheerful  counsel  of  the  Irishman  as  he  tucked  the 
buffalo  robe  around  him,  one  arm  about  his  daughter 
now  seated  on  his  knee ;  "  you  can't  get  to  them 
Corners  too  quick  for  Dinny  Riley — that's  me,  mind 
ye — I'm  shiverin'  like  a  tinant  on  rint  day ;  lay  on 
the  bud." 

But  the  driver  still  held  his  horses  back,  clearing 
his  throat  as  if  in  so.ae  embarrassment.  "  That's  all 
very  fine,"  he  began,  chewing  vigorously  on  the  end 
of  a  straw  he  had  picked  from  the  bottom  of  the 
sleigh — "  but  them  two  is  passengers  now — an'  what 
about  their  fare  ?  That's  what  I  want  to  know — 
who's  a-goin'  to  pay  their  fare  ?  " 

The  woman's  face  turned  crimson,  and  with  a 
quick  movement  she  arose,  her  child  still  in  her  arms, 

25 


2b 


THE   HANDICAP 


and  struggled  towards  the  side  of  the  sleigh.  Both 
men  sought  to  restrain  her.  "  Sit  where  you  are, 
my  woman,"  said  the  man  who  had  been  addressed 
as  Dr.  Leitch. 

"  I  can't,"  she  said,  her  face  burning  mure  than 
before.     "  I  haven  .  any  money.     Please  let  me  out." 

But  they  resisted,  and  a  general  protest  arose  from 
the  occupants  of  the  vehicle.  One  suggested  a  col- 
lection. Suddenly  the  Scotchman's  voice  was  heard. 
"  What's  yir  name,  woman  ? "  he  inquired  in  a  strong 
Doric,  looking  around  at  her  over  a  huge  collar,  the 
words  stumbling  through  it  as  best  they  could. 

"Menzies,"  she  answered  timidly,  without  lifting 
her  eyes. 

"Mistress  Me-zies?"  he  pursued,  the  accent  on 
the  first  word,  wrenching  the  consonants  as  only  a 
Scotchman  can. 

The  woman's  face  paled  to  whiteness,  but  no  sound 
escaped  her, 

"  Or  it'll  be  Miss  Menzies  ?  "  her  questioner  sug- 
gested ;  "  that  bairn'll  be  yir  wee  brither,  I'm 
thinkin'  ?  " 

"  Margaret  Menzies,"  the  woman  faltered,  her  sad 
eyes  averted,  her  comely  face  cast  down ;  "  that's  my 
name — I'm  just  Margaret  Menzies." 

"Ye'll  be  gaein'  to  Glen  Ridge?"  continued  her 
cross-examiner. 


DINNYS    TREAT 


27 


•'  Yes — or  near  it,  at  least.  We  walked  from  Ham- 
ilton." 

•'  Don't  let's  get  out,  mother,"  suddenly  piped  in 
the  boyish  vuicc.  "  I  want  to  ride.  An'  I  want  to 
sit  on  the  fruiit  heat — I  want  to  drive  the  horses." 

Tiie  mother  paid  no  attention.  "  Ah,"  said  the 
Scotchman  suddenly,  "  an'  sae  yon's  yir  ain  bairn, 
is't?  An'  wha's  gaein'  to  meet  )e  at  Glen  Ridge 
— wha  micht  be  expectin'  ye  there  ?  " 

"  Nobody,"  answered  the  woman  slowly  and  sadly. 
The  voice,  of  Scottish  tinge  though  not  in  Scottish 
speech,  betrayed  delicacy  and  refinement.  "  I'm 
going  to  my  uncle — but  he's  not  expecting  me.  He 
doesn't  know  I'm  coming." 

"  What  does  he  dae  ?  "  with  Scotch  bluntness,  es- 
pecially noticeable  in  all  matters  commercial. 

"  My  uncle  ? — he's  a  farmer ;  he  has  a  farm  near 
Glen  Ridge." 

"Then  he'll  hae  plenty,"  and  the  Scotchman's 
voice  had  a  note  of  great  relief.  "  There'll  be  nae 
need  o'  takin'  no  a  collection,"  as  he  turned  this  way 
and  that  to  the  passengers.  "  Forbye,  the  like  o' 
that's  mair  fittin'  for  the  Kirk,  an'  the  Sabbath  day. 
He'll  pay  what's  owin' — the  buddy's  uncle — he'll  set- 
tle for  them  baith,"  his  remarks  now  directed  to  the 
driver.  "  Sae  gang  ye  ahead,  my  man — I'll  be  glad 
mysel'   when  we  stap  a  wee  while  at  thae  Corners 


a8 


THE   HANDICAP 


yeVe  speakin'  o'~my  insides  is  fair  froze  up.  an'  I'm 

thinkin' " 

"  Hould  yer  whisht,"  came  suddenly  in  indignant 
Irish  tones,  "  an'  let  dacent  folks  alone.     I'll  pay  their 
fares,  an'  welcome-go  on.  driver,  an'  let  him  keep 
h.s  bawbee  for  his  Kirk  and  his  Sawbath."  the  last 
word    rolled  out  in  contemptuous  mimicry,  "  an'  I 
hope  the  minister'll  preach  oi,  the  Good  Samaritan; 
that's  what  I'd  give  to  the  pack  av  ye  if  I  was  the 
mmister  av  a  Scotch  congregation-sure  I'd  sooner 
tackle  the  rale  haythens,  widout  kilts,  that  ate  yez 
honestly  widout  sayin'  anny  grace.     I  would  now- 
begorra  an'  I  would,"  grinning  broadly  as  his  hand 
went  down  towards  a  capacious  pocket  for  the  re- 
quired  cash. 

The  man  beside  him,  now  known  as  Dr.  Leitch, 
was  evidently  growing  in  admiration  of  his  compan- 
ion. A  curious  smile  played  over  his  face  as  he 
turned  and  looked  at  the  highly  interesting  features 
of  this  new-found  friend.  "  I'll  pay  half."  he  said 
m  a  low  tone;  "how  much  is  it?  we'll  do  it  to- 
gether." 

"  Och,  go  on  wid  ye,"  returned  the  Irishman ;  "  ye'll 
do  nothin'  o'  the  sort.  Sure  ye'rc  just  after  tellin' 
me  ye  get  yer  pay  in  somethin'  else  than  money- 
whativer  the  divil  that  means-an'  that  there  critter 
on  the  front  seat,  he  wouldn't  take  annything  else 


DINNYS   TREA  T 


29 


Here,  driver,  how  much  is  it  ?— take  yer  change  out 
o'  that." 

"  Hut  I  will,"  insisted  the  muffled  form  beside  him, 
already  fumbling  for  his  pocketbook. 

"  Whisht  now,  I  tell  ye — be  aisy,  an'  don't  inter- 
fere when  we're  doin'  business.  I'll  tell  ye  how  we'll 
square  it  up,"  he  said  slyly,  winking  at  his  unknown 
friend ;  "  ye  can  set  'em  up  when  we  get  to  them 
What-D'ye-Call-'em  Corners — if  we  ever  get  there. 
I'm  thinkin"  they're  like  Mulcahey's  cow — !.e  was 
always  braggin'  about  it,  but  nobody  ever  seen  it  yet. 
Here,  driver,"  with  which  he  passed  over  the  coin  of 
the  realm,  repressing  at  the  same  time  a  feeble  out- 
burst of  gratitude  from  the  woman  at  his  side. 

"  McLarty  there  was  badly  alarmed  for  a  while,  for 
fear  there  was  going  to  be  a  collection,"  the  good 
doctor  communicated  in  a  whisper;  "  it's  wonderful 
what  fine  Samaritans  lots  of  people  would  be,  if  it 
weren't  for  the  wine  and  the  two  pence,"  and  those 
nearest  him  heard  a  very  musical  ripple  of  laughter. 

"  That  Samaritan— the  one  in  the  Bible,  I  mean- 
was  before  Scotchmen  were  invinted,"  bubbled  the 
other,  now  pocketing  the  change  that  had  been 
handed  back  to  him  ;  "  ye  mightn't  know  who  he  is, 
might  ye  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  know  him.  His  name's  McLarty— and 
he's  the  richest  man  in  Glen  Ridge.     He  own    con- 


30 


THE   HAND!C/iP 


IF! 


sidcrable  proi,crty-one  of  the  tavern,  belongs  to 

The  man  beside  him  started  perceptibly.  "  Two 
taverns  !  "  he  exclaimed  rather  violently  •  -  uln-  i 
thought  there  was  only  one.  Sure  I  didn't  bar.^ain 
for  anny  opposition.  What  might  ye  call  the  one  he 
owns—the  tavern,  1  mean  ?  " 

Hut  before  his  companion  had  time  to  make  reply 
the  sleigh,  with  a  very  interesting  senhcircie  to  its 
credit  by  the  operation,  swung  like  a  Ha.h  around  a 
corner  that  nobody  could  have  poss.bly  foreseen- 
and.  with  a  loud  halloo  from  the  driver,  n^arvellous 
though  .t  may  appear;  with  much  puffing  and  snort- 
ing from  the  hungry  steeds  ;  with  maniiold  barkings 
from  quite  a  sufficient  number  of  dogs  that  suddenly 
appeared,  as  if  now  and  only  now  their  hour  at  length 
had  come;  and  with  the  appearance  on  the  small 
projecting  porch  of  a  round-paunched  and  very  hos- 
pitab'e-looking  landlord,  accompanied  by  a  very  sub- 
stantial and  smilmg  spouse,  the  caravan  came  to  such 
a  sudden  stop  that  all  the  passengers  went  forward 
just  enough  to  make  it  look  as  though  they  had 
joined  in  a  general  courtesy  to  their  waiting  host 

"  This  here's  Liddel's  Corner  Tavern."  the  driver 
sung  out  his  tone  as  genial  now.  his  air  as  important 
as  though  he  were  announcing  Charing  Cross  Sta- 
tion ;  ..  eveiybody  can  get  out  if  they  like,  an'  every- 


D/NNY'S   TREAT 


3» 


body's  got  to,  anyhow.  Hour  and  five  minutes  for 
refreshments.  Everything  you  need  inside — dining- 
room  on  tlie  right,  bar  on  the  left — the  sliccp  and 
the  goats  over  again.  An'  the  extra  five  minutes  is 
for  stttlin'  up.     Good-day,  Mr.  Hole." 

•'  Good-day,  J  udd,"  responded  the  cheery  landlord  ; 
"  it's  a  fine  day. " 

"  Yes,"  said  J  udd,  grinninjr,  "  for  polar  bears, 
niebbe.  E\er  see  such  a  lot  o'  froze-up  stiffs?" 
pointing  over  his  shoulder  to  the  shivering  corn- 
pan)',  now  in  the  confusion  of  disembarking. 

"  Mosquittics  didn't  trouble  you  much  on  the  way 
up,  eh?"  chuckled  mine  host.  His  wife,  having 
swiftly  numbered  the  passengers,  had  fled  into  the 
house  in  that  panic  of  preparation  so  delicious  to  tlie 
female  mind. 

"  No,  some  o'  the  women  had  fans  with  them — 
that  kept  them  off  pretty  good.  Where's  the  'ostler, 
Mr.  Bole  ? " 

"  He's  just  finishin'  his  dinner ;  he'll  be  out  in  a 
few  minutes." 

"  Most  generally  takes  the  last  course  in  the  bar, 
don't  he?  "said  Judd  with  a  grimace,  not  waiting 
for  a  reply  as  he  flung  himself  upoi;  the  restless 
team,  his  hands  flying  this  way  and  that  as  he  pro- 
ceeded with  lightning  rapidity  to  unhitch  them  from 
the  sleigh.     It  was  really  a  study,  this  sudden  meta- 


m 


33 


THE   HANDICAP 


morpliosis  that  Judd  had  undergone.     He  was  whis- 
tling now,  the  very  soul  of  good  nature.     Tliis  trans- 
formation in  Judd's  demeanour  had  been  observed 
many  a  time  and  oft  by  those  famihar  with  him,  and 
the  most  plausible  explanation  was  that  for  this  hour 
and  five  minutes  aforesaid  he  allowed  himself  a  brief 
relaxation  <rom  the  severe  dignity  that  none  knew 
better  tlian  he  was  worthy  of  one  set  in  authority 
over  the  stage  between  the  city  of  Hamilton  on  the 
one  hand  and  the  village  of  Glen  Ridge  on  the  other. 
Some  of  the  more  carnally  minded,  it  is  true,  ven- 
tured  the  opinion  that  this  remarkable  mellowing 
was  not  without  some  faint  relation  to  the  cheerful 
terminus  at  which  it  had  its  birth  :  to  wit,  the  Liddel's 
Corners  Tavern,  with   its   eating-room  on  the  one 
hand    and    its    drinking-room    on    the   other.     For 
towards   both   these  industries  Judd  was  known  to 
maintain  a  strict  impartiality. 

The  landlord,  after  emitting  a  shrill  whistle   by 
dint  of  mouth  and  fingers  three,  towards  the  sup- 
posed location  of  the  'ostler— and  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted   his  aim  had  a  decided   leaning  to  the  left 
hand   side— directed  all  his  energies   to  the  fitting 
reception   of  his   guests.     He  was  just   in  time  to 
superintend  the  offices  of  Dr.  Leitch  and  his  Irish 
friend  as  they  helped  from  their  places  in  the  sleigh 
the  two  passengers  to  whom  they  had  given  such 


DINNY'S   TREAT  3, 

timely  aid.  whereafter  the  entire  p..ty  filed  eaKcrly 
within  the  open  door,  many  an  exclan.atiun  of  .utis- 
faction,  many  a  deep-drawj.  sigh  betokening  the  joy 
of  returning  warmth.     A  huge  fire  of  logs  glowed 
and  crackled  in  an  open  fireplace  set  in  the  centre  of 
^vhat  seemed  to  be  the  only  living-roum  about  the 
hostelry,  the  other  two  being  set  apart  to  the  Indus- 
tries  already  indicated.     About  this  grateful   blaze, 
divesting  themselves  of  their  outer  clothing,  the  httle 
gathr    „g  soon  was  grouped,  their  hands  outstretched 
to  tne  leaping  fire.     The  boy  and  the  girl,  obedient 
to  the  ancient  law  of  human  gravitation,  were  stand- 
ing side   by  side;   a   few  timid  words   had  passed 
between  them,  both  silent  now  as  the  crackling  flame 
laid  Its  charm  upon  them. 

Happening  fo  look  up.  Dr.  Leitch's  attention 
was  attracted  by  the  beckoning  of  his  travelling 
companion;  the  Irishman  was  beside  th.  window 
"  Look,  for  the  love  o'  Hivin  ! "  he  said  in  a  stage 
whisper  as  the  other  joined  him.  <.  wouldn't  that 
knock  ye  cold  ?  See  that  spalpeen-d'ye  mind  that, 
now  ?  " 

"  Why,  that's  McLarty."  replied  his  friend. 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  critter  calls  himself;  he's 
a  Scotchman-an-  I  call  them  all  Sandy.  But  d'ye 
mind  what  he's  after  ?  " 

"  No.  I  can't  say  I  do.  e^iactly ;  looking  into  the 


«-5 


34 


THE   HANDICAP 


sleigh,  isn't  he  ?     1  dare  say  he  thinks  he  lost  some- 
thing." 

••  Nary  a  bit  of  it,"  returned  the  Irishman  rather 
contemptuously;  «  unless  he  thinks  he's  lost  a  chance 
—-he's  lookin'  to  see  if  annybody  else  has  left  anny- 
thm'.  That's  what  ails  him— doesn't  that  bate  the 
Dutch,  now  ?  " 

The  strong  face  of  the  older  man  was  relaxed  in 
merriment  "Don't."  he  began,  with  a  kind  of 
mock  seriousness,  "  don't  make  light  of  our  aris- 
tocracy. You'll  have  to  treat  Peter  iMcLarty  with 
respect  if  you're  going  to  live  in  Glen  Ridge— he's 
the  biggest  wig  we've  got  in  the  settlement." 

The  Hibernian  indulged  in  a  swift  grimace,  ac- 
companied by  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  Sure,  it's 
jokin'  ye  are  ?  "  he  said,  looking  quizzingly  at  his 
informant. 

"  Not  for  a  moment— I  tell  you,  he's  the  biggest 
aristocrat  we've  got.  He  says  so  himself— so  he 
ought  to  know.  He  came  to  Glen  Ridge  when  it 
was  a  wilderness,  fought  the  bears  and  wolves,  cleared 
several  farms,  saved  a  little  money,  got  several  more 
farms  by  way  of  mortgage— made  quite  a  bit  of 
money,  and  now  he's  got  a  manufacturing  business- 
makes  screws,  I  think— so  he's  taken  his  place  as  the 
laird  of  the  whole  community.  He's  about  the  same 
to  us  as  a  lord  would  be  to  you,  over  there  in  Ire- 


t 


Ji'Mlks:  v.3i*:jA^-««¥_v- 


D/NNYS   TREAT  33 

land;  but  he  gets  the  name  of  being- uell.  of  being 
what  you  might  call  a  little  n- ,.: 

By  this  time  the  Irishma     n.A  brckoi.  .Uo  a  broad 
grin.     «Begorra.   an'    he  1.  .;,  .   ,„„e  1  ke  a  groom 
than  a  lord-it's  helpin'  the   ostier  iu  ought  to  be. 
Say,  stranger."  his  tone  suddenly  changing  as  he  dis- 
missed the  Scotchman   from  his  thoughts,  "  let's  go 
in  where  the  gintlemen  are-come  on  in  an'  have 
somethin'.-  moving  as  he  spoke  towards  the  little 
room  on  the  left  hand  side;  "  if    a  little  warmth  in 
the  insides  of  him  a  man  needs  after  drivin'  across 
this  God-forsaken  country  a  cruel  day  like  this.    An' 
we'll  drink  to  our  bein'   the  best  o'  neighbours  in 
Glen  Rich-or  whatever  ye  call  the  place  we're  goin' 
to.     Say,  what's  your  name,  anny  way  ?     Then  I  can 
invite  ye  like  one  Christian  should  another." 

"  Leitch,"   said   his    tall  companion,  "  my  name's 
Leitch." 

"  Sure  it  sounds  Scotch  enough-but  there's  manny 
a  dacent  Scotchman.  Mine's  Riley-Dinny  Riley- 
an'  my  father  kept  the  Black  Bull  in  Kilkarty  for 
thirty  year  or  more;  an'  he  niver  put  a  dhrop  o'  wat- 
ter  in  the  decanter  till  he  died-so  he  niver.  Come, 
Mr.  Leitch,  come  on  in  wid  me  an'  say  what-sure' 
it's  a  long  time  since  we  did  the  loikes  o'  this  to- 
gether." 

A  smile  was  on  the  other's  face  ;  he  was  evidently 


i  1: 


m 


36 


THE   HANDICAP 


enjoying    the    experience.     "No,   thank   you.    Mr. 

Riley,"  he  answered  cordially,  <-  the  fact  is " 

"  Niver    mind   the    Riley  part— an'   lave  off  that 
Mister  business-whin  I  drink  wid  a  man,  Dinny's 
me  name-just  plain  Dinny.     If  a  wee  dhrcp  on  a 
day  like  this  don't  mean  good  fellowship,  it'  don't 
mean  annything.     Come  on— dinner'll  be  waitin'." 
"  Well.  Dennis,"  began  his  unrecognized  friend. 
"Quit  it."   broke   in    the    oth-    commanding  a 
formidable  frown ;«  if  there's  one  .hing  knocks  me 
cold,  it's  to  be  called  Dinnis.     Niver  got  it  since  I 
was  christened-only  when  my  father  used  to  lam- 
baste  me,  that's  what  he  always  began  with_an' 
when  I  got  married  they  used  it.  I  think.     Dinny's 
the  Irish  av  it,  if  you  please,  sir,"  this  last  coming 
with  a  courtesy. 

"  Well,  Dinny.  the  fact  is  I  never  take  anything 
like  that— haven't  for  five  and  forty  years.  And  if  I 
can  just  hold  out  for  other  five  and  forty  I'll  talk  the 
matter  over  with  you-if  we're  together  then."  and 
the  big,  grave  eyes  turned  and  looked  almost  yearn- 
ingly  into  Dinny's  wondering  face. 

"  An'  where  d'ye  think  that'll  be  ?  "  a  droll  smile 
on  the  face  of  the  questioner. 

"  In  a  milder  clime  than  this.  I  hope-Dinny— 
since  you  wisli  me  to  call  you  that." 

"  Not  too  much  milder,  you  don't  mean.  sir.  do 


''•''        '*iilli  iiiii'i    r^-^J^»A§»'. 


9m 


t  * 


DJNNY'S    TREAT  37 

you?"    the    Irish    eye    lighting   with   irrepressible 
humour. 

His  friend  laughed  in  spite  of  himself.  « No,  I 
don't  mean  that.  I  mean  «  where  everlasting  Spring 
abides,'  "  his  face  and  voice  taking  on  quick  serious- 
ness again.  Such  an  absence  of  cant,  such  a  strength 
of  reality  were  in  the  words,  that  the  other  instinc- 
tively felt  he  was  at  least  in  the  presence  of  an  ear- 
nest man— and  that  is  one  of  the  great  experiences 
of  Hfe. 

"  I'm  afraid  them  choice  resorts  won't  be  for  the 
likes  o'  me,"  he  said,  his  tone  almost  as  serious  as 
the  other's. 

"  She'll  be  there,"  came  quietly,  almost  inaudibly, 
from  the  lips  of  the  older  man,  nodding  towards  the 
group   before    the    fir.  .    you'll   have   to  come. 

Dinny."     The    name,  )me    reason    or   other, 

seemed  difficult  for  him  to  speak. 

Rather  a  lengthened  pause  preceded  Dinny's 
words.  "  Her  mother's  there,"  he  said  in  a  hushed 
voice,  and  the  eyes  that  were  turned  on  the  sweet 
girlish  form  before  the  fire  were  full  of  mournful 
tenderness—"  an'  sure,  she's  the  livin'  image  of  her. 
she  is.  Her  mother  died  when  she  was  born,  sir.  An' 
she's  the  life  o'  me  now— the  very  life  o'  me,  sir." 

Dr.  Leitch  nodded,  a  wealth  of  sympathy  in  the 
soulful  face,  and  silence  fell  for  several  minutes. 


'  ]\ 


'     ! 


i  n 


I 


ri.il 


TWWP-^^^Iir 


38 


THE   HANDICAP 


iT.'i 
I 


"  Mr.  Leitch,"  came  suddenly  from  the  Irishman. 

"  Yes,  what  is  it  ?  ' 

"  We  won't  take  annything  to-day,  Jr." 

"No,  not  to-day.  Dinny."  returned  the  other 
gravely,  wliereat  his  companion  turned  and  started 
sluuJy  across  the  room  towards  the  group  beside  the 
fire  Before  he  had  quite  reached  them,  a  hand  was 
a.d  on  Dinny's  shoulder.  Turning  quickly  around 
he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  his  fellow  passen- 
ger of  the  tam-o'-shanter. 

"  Hello  !  "  sang  out  Dinny  cheerfully,  as  though  he 
had  encountered  an  old  friend  ;  «  might  yer  name 
be  McParty?" 

"Na,  na.  it's  no'  that.  .vIcLarty-my  name's 
McLartj'—Peter  McLarty." 

"  That's  what  I  heard  tell-but  I  hate  to  belave 
annything  like  that  about  a  man  till  I  ask  him  to  his 
face.  Sure  I  thought  it  was  a  yarn  they  had  on 
ye.     Does  that  thing  on  yer  head  hurt  ye  ?  ' 

"  Na,  na,"  assured  the  other  seriously;  <«  that 
wadna'  hurt  onybody,"  summoning  a  sepulchral 
smile  as  he  spoke. 

"  Then  ye'il  be  wearin'  it  as  a  badge  o'  mournin', 
hke— for  some  rilitive  that  died,  like  ?  " 

"  Na,  na,  naethin'  o'  the  sort,"  returned  the  Cale- 
donian a  little  impatiently;  "it  belonged  to  my 
graun'faither ;  it  was  his  ain." 


'^ 


v^    J: 


DJNNYS    TREAT 


}9 


"  Then  he  must  have  left  ye  a  pile  o'  money,"  sur- 
mised Dinny,  confident  now  that  he  wab  yetting  at 
the  root  of  the  matter, 

"  Na,  na,  he  hadna'  onything  to  leave.  He  was 
only  a  shepherd,  ye  ken.  What  siller  I  hae,  I  made 
it  mysel', "  and  Dinny  could  see  confirmation  of  Dr. 
Leitch's  opinion  in  the  way  the  man  drew  hmiself  up 
in  pride.  "  He  was  a  Hielan'man,  ye  ken,  and  they 
a'  wear " 

"  Might  j'ou  be  a  Highlandman  ?  "  Dinny  inter- 
rupted suddenly. 

"  Aye,  nae  doot.  Aye,  I'm  a  Hielan'man.  I'm 
what  ye  micht  ca'  the  heid  o'  the  clan,  ye  ken." 

"  Then  what  the  divil  d'ye  wear  pants  for  ?  "  Dinny 
demanded  vigorously,  sternly  surveying  the  very 
pronounced  piece  of  checkered  goods  that  covered 
the  Scotchman's  nether  limbs.  "  Sure  I  niver  heard 
tell  av  a  rale  Highlandman  that  wore  iver  a  pant  at 
ail,  at  all." 

Mr.  McLarty,  thus  unexpectedly  arraigned,  grew 
as  red  as  the  bonnet  on  his  brow.  "  They're  no  sae 
bonnie  as  the  kilts,  I  grant  ye,"  he  began  confusedly, 
stealing  a  downward  glance  towards  the  less  comely 
raiment,  "  but  it's — it's  ower  cauld  to  dae  wi'oot 
them,  ye  ken.  But  I  hae  a  graun'  kiltie  at  hame,  at 
Glen  Ridge,  I'm  meanin'.  I'm  keepin'  them  to  be 
laid  oot  in.     They  belonged  till  my  faither's  faither, 


1 

ill 


'^^_, 


f  • 


•«o 


THE   HANDICAP 


but   they    „ce„a'  .„a,.  ,,„„  oot  when  he  sLpi 
awa -au'thafs  haul  cam' to  hae  them"  ^^ 

errand       n""?  "'^^  "°'  "'""^1..     His  original 
errand  St  1  renamed  to  be  discharged.    ■•  ni  g,„. 

n  w.  ye.  he  sa.d  in  an  undertone,  drawing  close  up 
to  D,nny  and  casting  a  tender  glance  towards  tie 
open  door  on  the  left. 

"In  where  ,■■  was  the  rather  astonished  reply- 
into  dinner,  do  you  mean?" 

mn^^'m^"'-  "'"  •"="->^"-  yon  man  wadna' 
r  H     i  -'ead-ru  tak'  summat  wi'  ye,"  and 

h.3   hand   touched   the  others  arm  as  he  began"' 
move  towards  the  inv.ti„g  door.    Also,  he  l.ckfd  h" 

Dinny's  eyes  flashed.    ■•  That  11  do  me  nicely  "  l,e 

«pondc    ...  «1  be  an  experience  or  a   lifetL- 
="re  I  belave  th,s  is  the  first  time  I  iver  had  em  set 
"P    by    a    Scotchman.     Ifs    mighty   kind   o    . 
^anger-ye're  the  first  man  that's  asked  me  what 
IdtakesmcelcametoAmeriky" 

Whereat   the   Scotchman    paled.     This  was  very 

it^n  .™T;rrrt;~--"'--''^ 

did   the   askin'.'  "  't  was  yin^el' that 

alarmed  '     '"  '''"''""'''  ^  -"— <i  as 


^^^ 


DINNY  S    TREAT  4, 

"  Sure  I  did-but  he  wouldn't  ^o  u  .d  me.  So  this 
is  a  ne-v  case  altogether—uc'rc  staitin"  fresh."  cheer- 
fully  explained  the  Irishman—-  an'  that's  why  I  think 
it's  mighty  dacent  av  ye— come  along." 

"  Mebbe,  mebbe  we'd  better  bide  a  wee,"  remon- 
stratea  the  Scotchman ;  <-  1  dinna  want  to  force  ye— 
I'm  dootin'  ye're  only  gaein'  to  please  me." 

"  Niver  a  bit  of  it,"  returned  his  friend.  "  Sure  it's 
delighted  I'll  be." 

"  Weel,  mebbe  it  micht  be  as  weel  to  wait  till  we've 
had  oor  dinner— they  say  it's  guid  for  digestion," 
pleaded  the  Scot. 

"  Gives  me  cramps,  after  eatin',"  said  Dinny,  a 
hand  laid  protectingly  on  his  stomach. 

"  Weel,  weel,  to  tell  ye  the  truth,"  and  there  was  a 
note  of  despair  in  Mr.  McLarty's  voice,  "  I  dinna 
think  I'd  better  gang  at  a'.  I  dinna  want  yon  man," 
pointing  towards  the  distant  figure  of  Dr.  Leitch  as 
he  spoke,  «  I  dinna  want  him  to  ken  I  taste  onything. 
He's  my  minister,  ye  ken- an"  I  dinna  want  him  to 
see  me  gaein'  in— he  wadna'  think  it  richt." 

Dinny's  eyes  showed  his  amazement.  "What?" 
he  cried,  "  what's  that  ye're  after  tellin'  me  ?  Who 
might  that  man  be,  d'ye  say?" 

"  Him  ?     He's  oor  minister — yon's  Dr.  Leitch." 
Dinny   was   standing   still    in  speechless  wonder. 
Sucdenly  a  voice  broke  in  on  his  reverie.     The  voice 


\     \\ 


III 


I  i'  (i 


42 


'THE   HANDICAP 


V'l 


i 


was  Judds :  «  That's  the  truth,  stranger.     That's  the 
ninnster  of  St.  Andreu-'s   Church.     I  call  him  the 
King  of  Glen  Ridge-and  if  that's  where  you're  goin' 
you'll  find  out  I'.n  right.     D.dn't  you  see  us  grinning 
there,  on  the  other  side  of  the  room_a  great  joke- 
we  all  knew  what  you   were  saying  to  h.ni.     Well, 
stranger,     I    congratulate  you  anyhow-you're  the' 
first  man.  I'll  bet.  that  ever  asked  Dr.  Leitch  to  have 
a  dnnk.     That's  one  you've  got  to  your  credit  any- 
how."  ^ 

"  ^^^t'^^'""-"  a  g»I's  soft  voice  stole  up  from  beneath, 
••  let's  go  in  tu  dinner— I'm  hungry." 

«ut  Dinny  was  oft-and  the  girl  followed  close 
behmd.  Across  the  room  he  strode  nor  stopped 
unt.1  he  was  opposite  Dr.  Leitch.  already  opening 
the  door  to  the  dining-room. 

"  Doctor,"  he   began  in  an  agitated  tone.  "  it's  yer 
pardon   I'll  be  beggin'.  Doctor.     Sure  I  niver  mis- 
doubted   but   yc  were  only  an  ordinary  man.     An' 
that    gossoon  -wid    the    balloon  on    his  head-he 
tells   me  ye're   the  minister.     Ye'Il  not  think  anny 
worse    of   n.e.  will    ye.    DoctorP-there   isn't   anny 
I'v.n'  man  thinks   more  o'  the   cloth  than  me-an'  I 
beg  yer  pardon,  Doctor-sure.  I  didn't  mean  anny- 
thing  but  a  bit  o'  hospitality." 

Very  handsome,  and  very  lovable,  was  the  face 
that   looked    into  Dinny 's   troubled   eyes.      Kindly 


D/NNY'S    TREAT  43 

merriment  flowed  from  every  fciiUue.  "  Cunie, 
I  ;nny.  none  of  this,"  he  said,  "  it's  the  best  joke 
I've  had  for  years.  I  don't  know  any  man  that  can 
stand  more  invitations  than  preachers  can — cvin  if 
they  don't  accept  every  call.  Come  on  in  now,  come 
on  with  me,  and  let  us  ha  'e  oui  dinner.  What's  her 
name  ?  "  he  asked,  turning  and  holding  out  his  hand 
to  the  little  girl. 

"  She'll  tell  ye,"  said  Dinny ;  "  tell  Dr.  Leitch  yer 
name,  mavourneen." 

The  child  looked  up  shyly  into  the  minister's 
face.  Like  everybody  else,  she  felt  its  charm  and 
beauty.  "  Nora,"  she  murmured  sweetly,  "  I'm 
Nora  Riley." 

"  It's  a  bonnie  name — like  a  bonnie  lassie  ought 
to  have,"  the  minister  said  as  he  led  the  way  into 
the  little  room,  the  child's  hand  still  in  his.  A 
moment  later  they  were  seated  about  the  table, 
prepared  to  do  ample  jusi  ce  to  the  good  things 
upon  it,  which,  if  simple  and  unpretentious,  were 
wholesome  and  abundant. 


jf  CI 


^ff^ 


'^•--Vr 


III 

y^N   IRISH   HEART   MAKES  BOLD 

DINNY  had  already  speared  a  potato,  still 
unjacketcd,  with  his  two-pronged  fork  and 
was  proceeding  to  its  swift  dismantlement 
when  suddenly  he  stopped,  the  savoury  tuber  'm  mid- 
air, his  head  slightly  bowed.     The  child  beside  him 
lookeo  m  wonder,  noting  in  a  confused  kind  of  way 
that  this  unusual  pause  at  such  a  time  had  some 
connection  with  their  friend  on  the  other  side  ^f  the 
table.     For  his  head  was  b    ■.  ^d  a  moment,  and  no 
one.   however   unfamiliar   with   the   exercise,   could 
have  failed  to  see  that  he  was  in  the  act  of  prayer. 
It  was  all  over  in  a  moment,  so  unostentatious  and 
sincere,  .nd  the  new-opened  eyes  had  the  old  light 
of  gentle  merriment  as  they  were  fixed  again  upon 
the  girl  before  him. 

"Won't  you  say  it  for  us  all,  sir?"  Dinny  ven- 
tured, a  little  timidly,  as  though  perhaps  he  were 
askmg  too  much  ;  "  say  it  out  loud.  sir.  if  it's  all  the 
same-sure  an'  it's  thankful  we  ought  to  be  this  day. 
\ezll  all  bowyer  heads,"  this  last  directed  to  such 
fellow  travellers  as  had  already  begun  their  meal. 

44 


/IS  IRISH  HEART  MAKES  BOLD        4s 


The  minister  smiicc!,  then  reverently  bowed  his 
head  a^iain  and  briefly  returned  thanks  for  the  good 
things  already  set,  or  about  to  be  set,  before  them  ;  a 
few  word-s  at  the  close,  fervent  in  feeling,  made  ref- 
erence to  the  strangers'  need  and  invoked  the  guid- 
ance of  the  pilgrims'  I'riend. 

Dinny  renewed  his  attack  on  the  potato.  "  Sure 
they  both  make  me  think  av  Quid  Ireland,'  he  said 
gravely,  after  allowing  for  a  fitting  pause. 

"  Both  what  ? "  inquired  Dr.  Leitch,  glancing 
across  the  table. 

"  Both  o'  them ;  what  I've  got  here,"  brandishing 
the  potato — "  an'  what  ye  gave  us.  Sure  ye'll  find 
them  both  everywhere  in  Quid  Ireland — an'  the  one 
helps  a  fellow  as  much  as  the  other." 

"What  do  you  purpose  doing  in  Glen  Ridge? — 
v/hat  line  of  life,  I  mean — what  do  you  intend  to 
follow        a  Hving  ?  " 

No  trace  of  embarrassment  marked  the  Irishman's 
reply.  "  I'm  goin'  to  take  Tim  Loftus's  place,"  he 
answered  immediately  ;  "  I'm  goin'  to  kape  a  tavern. 
An'  mind  ye,  Dinny  Riley's  the  boy  that'll  kape  it 
right."  He  turned  as  he  spoke  and  looked,  not 
without  a  trace  of  pride,  into  the  minister's  face. 
"  If  a  tavern  isn't  dacent,  ye  see,  it's — well,  it's  on- 
dacent,  an'  that  wouldn't  do  at  all,  at  all,"  shaking 
his  head  in  fullness  of  resolve. 


!  ■' 


'■! 


46 


THE  HANDICAI- 


»as  tl,c  l.abit  „l  l„s  soul  tu  all  mankind 
•■Ilu-yrc  n,.«,l>.  all  ,l,a,  kind..  ,,,>,,,,,,,,,  ^,^^ 
,        a  pause ;  ..  „,arl,.  all  ■  ondaccn,/  as  ,•„„  call  i,_„u 

h«.  u,  Canada,  at  Icaa.     And  .„.  afraid  T™,  ^ 
no  better  than  ll,e  rest."  ■ ""  s  «as 

Wnny  loukcd  a.  I,i„,  very  solentnly.     ..Mean' 
'  im  s  tivo  different  n.»„  ••  i  , 

"  Tin,  did  ,•,  ,  '  '""'  "'"'  '■■"'Pl-asis- 

Jn.  ddnt  Lave  a„ny  little  ,irl,r„,, „i„ki„..    ,,„. 

could  have  seen  The  lllack  liull_n,y  father  ke     Vr 

^ac..h.„  K„kar.y,,  think,  fid  y:::„!;:r,^: 

put.     hropovattern,  the., tun^he  sold,  nottil,  the 
d  y  he  d,ed,  s,r_an'  he'd  ehoke  a  man  afore  ■  e'd 

"  '""•  f"'  "•°-  ""  "as  good  for  h,„,.     A„.    ,' 
*.ay.  Shu.  the  doors  by  his  oun  clock_rve  " 

n,yehis.-an'pn,the3hutte.up„i„,self'     ; 
he  m,n,ster  gave  hi„,  a  beautiful  charracktcr  at  hi 
-eral,  but  nary  a  word  too  „,uch-sure  „,y  f 
-ver  nnssed  the  chureh   on  the  Sabbath  d  y      " 

wore  the  same  eoat  for  a  good  forty  year  toVoo 

ure    .n,  an'  always  fished  a  s.xpenn'yLe  ou   o'  . 

a.    pocket  when  he  came  forninst  the  plate  at  the 

•ioor.     Sure  .fs  your  church  Ml  be-  goin'  ,o,  s,  _ 


/i\'  IRISH  HEART  MAKES  BOLD        47 

when  I  tjet  settled  down  a  bit  an'  f,'ct  the  thinf;s  out 
o'  the  chist.  That's  where  me  an'  N'ora'll  j;"."  ^I'ld 
the  smile  ui  conlidciitc  and  tjuod  will  with  which  he 
looked  acro^ss  at  the  miiiisler  showed  that  he  antici- 
pated no  little  pleasure  trom  that  feature  of  his  future 
life. 

Dr.  Leitch  was  evidently  just  a  little  taken  aback. 
This  rind  of  experience  was  new  to  him.  "Don't 
make  up  your  mind  too  quickly,  Mr.  Riley,"  he 
befjan.     "There " 

"  My  name's  Dinny — to  you,  annyway,"  inter- 
rupted the  other. 

"  Well,  I  was  saying  you  mustn't  decide  too  has- 
ti!)'.  You  know,  there  are  one  or  two  other  places 
of  worship— and  perhaps  you  wouldn't  prefer 
ours." 

"  I'm  goin'  to  yours,  sir, "  Dinny  declared,  nodding 
towards  his  future  minister.  "  What's  its  name  ?  " 
he  added. 

"St.  Andrews,"  returned  Dr.  leitch.  "St.  An- 
drews Kirk,  we  call  •':." 

"  That's  my  kind,"  said  Dinny  ;  "  that's  where  I'll 
go — an'  I'll  have  a  penny  or  two  for  the  plate,  mind 
ye  that.  Sure  I'm  not  one  o'  the  kind  that  takes  it 
out  in  prayin'." 

"  You  don't  s'.rike  me  as  one  of  that  kind,"  the 
minister  remarked,  smiling ;    "  if  you're   always   as 


m  I 


\  X.'.- 


48 


THE   HANDICAP 


generous  as  you  were  with  that  poor  woman,  there 
isn't  much  of  the  skinflint  about  you." 

"  What  woman?"  inquired  Dinn)-,  for  he  had  evi- 
dently forgotten. 

"  That  woman  with  the  httle  boy-the  one  whose 
fare  you  paid  on  the  stage ;  the  one  we  picked  up  on 
the  road,  you  remember." 

"Holy  Smoke,"  cried  Dinny  in  dismay  as  he 
glanced  along  the  table  and  about  the  room,  his 
search  unfruitful ;  "  if  this  here  ain't  a  barbarous  pro- 
ceedm' !  Sure  it's  haythen  we  are."  rising  as  he 
spoke;  '.sit  still.  Nora-I'II  not  be  long."  as  the 
child  started  to  follow  him ;  "  but  if  this  isn't  haythen- 
ish,  askin'  a  blessin'_an'  them  two  wid  niver  a  bite 
to  ate." 

"Where  are  you  going,  father  ?"  cried  the  girl, 
loath  to  let  him  out  of  her  sight. 

"  Sure  I'm  goin'  to  get  that  callant  an'  his  mother. 

I'll  hold  ye  they're  starvin'  this  minute;  but  we'll  soon 

fix  that— if  they  haven't  forgot  how  to  go  through 

the  motions.     They  looked  like  it."  the  last  words 

coming  faint  as  he  vanished  through  the  dooi  that 

led  into  the  outer  hall.     An  instant  later  his  face 

reappeared.     "  Will  ye  please  stay  wid  the  little  girl, 

Doctor?"  he  requested;  "  the  Doctor'll  take  care  av' 

ye,  Nora,"  with  which  he  was  gone  again. 

Casting  his  eyes  about  for  the  woman  and  her 


AN  IRISH  HEART  MAKES  BOLD        49 


child,  a  muffled  cry  suddenly  broke  from  him  as  he 
observed  three  or  four  forms  bowed  above  the  pros- 
trate figure  of  the  mother,  among  whom,  tearful  and 
wailing,  stood  her  boy,  his  eyes  fixed  greedily  upon 
his  mother's  face.  Hurrying  r.cross  the  room,  Dinny 
elbowed  his  way  in  close  to  the  settee,  or  rude  lounge, 
on  which  the  unconscious  form  of  the  woman  had 
been  laid.  The  landlord  was  there,  his  portly  wife 
beside  him,  both  in  a  state  of  official  agitation. 

"  What  might  be  the  matter  ?  "  Dinny  whispered, 
his  eyes  still  fixed  in  evident  admiration  on  the  deli- 
cate features  of  the  unresponsive  face.  Admiration, 
indeed — and  not  without  good  cause.  For  the  coun- 
tenance before  him  lay  in  unconscious  beauty,  less 
the  beauty  of  chiselled  lines  than  of  spiritual  purity ; 
long  eyelashes,  black  as  jet,  touched  the  fringe  of 
cheeks  whose  whiteness  was  like  to  marble ;  wavy 
hair,  dishevelled  though  it  was,  lay  in  the  charm  of 
rich  abundance  upon  the  neck  and  bosom  that  still 
showed  signs  of  life ;  the  shapely  nose,  the  thin,  mo- 
bile lips,  bespoke  delicacy  of  character  and  fineness 
of  feeling;  while  upon  the  whole  face  there  rested 
the  light  and  peace  that  are  only  to  be  found  as  the 
handiwork  of  sorrow,  and  the  expression  of  the  whole 
countenance — even  though  the  eyes  were  closed — 
was  eloquent  of  patience,  suffering,  disappointment, 
tragedy,  all  borne  in  secret  and  alone.     That  face — 


!    ¥  i 


50  THE   HANDICAP 

for  those  who  had  eyes  to  see-betoI<ened  son. 
l.embJ.ng  secret,  its  handuvork  obvious  to  such  hearts 
as  were  sympathetic  enough  to  discern  its  signature 
in  every  lineament. 

"  What  might  be  the  m^^•^pr  ?  '■  n- 

b   "^  "c  LUC  matter  ?     iJmny  repeated  his 

for„.r  q„e.,o„  as  ye.  u„a„3u.ered.     HeUf;; 
-    .e  spoke,  and  .„e  first  .a  „,ece  lus  gaze  was  Mr 
McLarty  himself. 

"She's  fainted,"  nu.mbled  the  Scotchman;  ..she 
famted  clean  awa'-i'm  dootin'  it's  the  heat  " 

D.nny  sniffed  contemptuously-..  The  heat-I'm 
dootm     ifs    the  cold,"  he  amended.    ..But  she's 

brea,hi„',aU  right-she  needs  a  stimulant;  get  her 
some  brandy,  qu.ck."  he  ordered,  turniug  to  the  land- 

thrt"^'",.!""  '  "'°''"  '""'^  '^  "«*"■-'  'hoch, 
that  myser,"  chimed  in  Mr.  McUrty 

"Then  why  the  divil  didn't  ye  order  it  ?"  came 
Irom  between  Dinny's  teeth. 

"I  didna'  like  to  tak'  the  liberty,"  explained  the 
Scot ;  ..some  folks  thinks  it's  wrang  to  tak',  ye  ken- 

all  — 

■■An'  some  folks  think  it's  dear  to  buy,"  flu„g 
back  Dmny,  by  this  time  engrossed  with  the  broken 
hearted  boy,  assuring  him  that  his  mother  would  soon 
be  all  right  again. 

Which  indeed  proved  to  be  true.    The  tavern- 


^S5^ 


y4N  IRISH  HEART  MAKES  BOLD        51 

keeper,  with  an  eye  to  business  and  humanity  ahke, 
lost  no  time  in  producing  the  stimulant  Dinny  had 
prescribed  ;  which,  with  dint  of  fanning  and  chafing, 
and  sundry  appeals  from  the  boy  beside  her,  soon 
resulted  in  the  return  of  consciousness,  the  big 
plaintive  eyes  starting  with  wonder,  then  breaking 
into  a  half-abashed  smile  as  they  opened  and  fixed 
themselves  upon  the  anxious  company  about  her. 
Gently  but  quite  resolutely  the  woman  insisted  on 
rising  to  her  feet,  making  light  of  the  indisposition 
that  had  overtaken  her,  tlianking  those  about  her 
for  their  kindness,  but  giving  them  unmistakably  to 
understand  that  further  attention  was  unnecessary. 
Motioning  her  child  to  follow  her,  and  adjusting  the 
bosom  of  her  dress  (which  the  landlord's  wife,  with 
the  instinct  of  universal  womanhood,  had  opened 
as  the  first  aid  to  restoration)  she  began  to  move 
over  towards  a  quiet  corner  of  the  little  hall. 

This  led  them,  though  at  a  little  distance,  past  the 
half-open  door  of  the  dining-room  from  which 
Dinny  had  emerged.  The  lad  cast  a  hungry  look 
within  ;  indeed,  he  plucked  his  mother's  gdwn  and 
pointed  eagerly  towards  those  who  were  seated  at  tiie 
long  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  at  the  same 
time  saying  something  in  eager  tones  which  the  gen- 
eral hubbub  rendered  inaudible  to  Dinny.  This 
was  quite  too  much   for  the  Irish  heart,  whereat  he 


52 


THE   HANDICAP 


II 


111    ! 


It 

i 

I 

I 


hurried  over  to  where  she  was  standing  hy  the 
vvmdow.  her  hps  close  to  the  ear  of  her  boy  as 
though  she  were  whispering  some  word  of  comfort 
to  the  hungry  child. 

"Might  je   be    fedin'   better,   ma'am?"   Dinny 
began,  the  tone  full  of  deferential  interest. 

"  Yes.  tha.)i<  you.   sir."  she  answered,   and   her 
manner  seemed   to    indicate   that    his   concern    at 
least,  was  not  resented.     "  It  was  a  strange  weak- 
ness that  came  over  me."  she  added,  smiling  faintly 
"I   thmk  it   must  have  been   the   long  walk-but 
whatever    it   was.   I   was    completely    unconscious. 
It  alarms  ,ne  some."  she  went  on  in  a  low  voice 
"  Don't  cry.  Irwin."  as  she  stooped  to  caress  the  lad, 
"  mother's  all  right  now,  dear." 

Emboldened  by  the  length  of  the  woman's  speech 
especially  as  her  disposal  of  the  others  had  been  so' 
summary.  Dinny  came  to  the  point  at  once. 

"Sure  it's  hunger  that  ails  the  lad.     An"  that's 
the  very  thing  I  came  out  for_to  fetch  yez  in- 
come away  in  wid  me  and  have  yer  dinner.     There's 
some   good   potaties   there,    wid   their  jackets  on," 
he    added,    something     of    embarrassment    in    his 
voice ;    for  the  woman's  eyes,  in  an  absent  sort  of^ 
way,  were  fixed  intently  on  him. 
A  momentary  pause  ensued. 
"  Let   us  sit   down  here  a  minute."   the   woman 


AN  IRISH  HEART  MAKES  BOLD        53 

suddenly  enjoined,  as  if  she  had  come  to  a  quick 
conclusion.  "  I  won't  detain  you  long.  But  I've 
decided — I've  decided  to — to  trust  you." 

"  What's  that,  ma'am  ?  "  said  Diniiy,  doubtful  if 
he  had  heard  aright. 

"  There's  something  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to 
do  for  me,"  she  answered,  her  voice  gaining  in 
confidence — "  if  it  should  be  necessary.  It's  about 
my  boy  here— it's  about  Irwin." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  was  all  Dinny  said ;  but  there 
was  something  in  his  voice  that  pledged  his  soul. 

"  Well,"   she   began   with   some   hesitation,  "  it's 

this,   Mr. I    really   don't    know   your    name, 

although  I'm  venturing  to  ask  this  of  you."  She 
paused. 

"  Riley's  my  name,"  said  Dinny,  his  lips  closing 
tight. 

"And  mine's  Menzies— I'm  Margaret  Menzies. 
Well,  I  was  going  to  ask  this,  Mr.  Riley.  Irwin's 
all  I've  got — and  I'm  faint  and  weary.  I've  got  a 
strange  kind  of  fear  lest  I  may  not  live  to  my 
journey's  end— and  that  bad  spell  I  had  has  fright- 
ened me.  I'm  on  my  way  to  my  uncle's  farm,  near 
Glen  Ridge.  He's  my  Uncle  Arthur— Arthur 
Ainslie.  I  haven't  seen  him  since  I  was  a  child  ; 
and  he  doesn't  know  I'm — he  doesn't  know  w^e're 
coming.     And  I  want  you — I  trust  you,  sir,  trusted 


'1 


Hi 


54 


•THE   HANDICAP 


ii 


you  from  first  I  saw  your  face  when  you  came  back 
to  bring  us  to  the  sleigh— I  want  you,  if  anything 
should  happen  me— if  I  should  fall  seriously  sick- 
to  take  me,  to  take  us,  I  mean,  to  Uncle  Arthur's 
house.     You  understand?" 

The  Irishman  nodded.  The  nod  was  like  an  oath ; 
and  he  was  busy  scribbling  something  on  a  scrap  of 
paper  he  had  drawn  from  his  pocket. 

"But  if— if  anything  should  happen  to  me— I 
mean  if  I  should  die,  you  are  not  to  take  Irwin  to 
my  uncle." 

'  What's  that,  n,a'am  ?  "  Dinny  interrupted ;  "  not 
to  take  him,  did  ye  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,  not  to  take  him ;  at  least,  not  at  first— he's 
to  be  taken  to  another  man." 

"  Another  man  !  "  echoed  Dinny. 

"  Yes,  to  another  man,"  she  repeated,  her  tone  low 
and  rigid,  her  Hps  set  and  white.  "  Another  man, 
and  he  lives  somewhere  near  Glen  Ridge.  His  name's 
McLarty-David  McLarty.  I  don't  know  how  he 
might  receive  you— or  Irwin— but " 

"McLarty,  did  ye  say,  ma'am?"  Dinny  inter- 
rupted, drawing  quickly  dose  to  her  and  dropping 
his  voice  to  a  whisper.  "Sure,  d'ye  know  the 
man  ?  " 

A  look  like  madness  mingled  with  the  sadness  of 
the  smile  that  played  a  moment  about  the  woman's 


'?«;»*--:'  .U.r5««re3^  £oWSSi':&.^'^mmM^i^  TV 


AN  IRISH  HEART  MAKES  BOLD 


■)•> 


\ 
^ 


mouth.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  her  cheek,  a  moment 
blanched,  now  hke  a  flaming  coal.  "  Vcs,  1  'enow 
the  man." 

"  Ye'd  know  him  if  ye  could  lay  eyes  on  him, 
ma'am  ? "  Dinny  pursued  impatienliy ;  "  is  it  long 
since  yc  set  eyes  on  him,  might  1  ask  ye  ?  " 

"  It's  years."  And  every  year  seemed  to  be  re- 
hearsed in  the  words,  so  charged  with  meaning. 

"  But  ye're  sure  ye'd  know  him  ?  " 

The  woman  nodded. 

"  Then  sure  ye  can  deal  wid  him  at  first  hand," 
quoth  Dinny  exultantly,  his  eyes  searching  the  now 
almost  empty  hall.  "  It's  myself  can  show  him  to 
ye,  ma'am — look  there." 

Margaret  Menzies'  face  was  like  the  dead.  "  No," 
she  murmured  hoarsely — "  I  mustn't  see  him — I 
won't,  I  can't.  Where  is  he  ?  Where  did  you  say 
he  was?"  her  lips  ghastly  white. 

"  There — right  forninst  ye,  that  there  one  by  the 
flower  pot.  Don't  ye  twig  him,  ma',  n  ? — that  man 
wid  the  cloth  cart-wheel  on  his  head  ?  " 

The  woman's  eyes  leaped  where  Dinny  pointed. 
Yet,  amid  all  her  intensity  of  gaze,  by  a  kind  of  in- 
voluntary movement  she  drew  her  boy  convulsively 
to  her  side,  hiding  his  face  in  the  folds  of  her  dress. 

"  That  man  with  the  shawl  over  his  arm  ?  "  she 
faltered. 


•1 


'  m 


■  I- 


^B!c"^"libJL.;^is*k.ki^tir:"0£  ...sri 


56 


THE   HANDICAP 


"  Yfs,"  returned  Dinny,  "  the  very  same.  Sure 
he's  the  only  man  around,  when  ye  come  to  think  of 
it.  The  rest  are  all  gone  in  to  ate  a  bite— but  the 
Scotchman  can't  afford  it,  maam.  he's  too  rich_not 
to  cast  anny  slur  on  a  friend  of  >er  own,  my  lady," 
he  hastened  to  add  by  way  of  apology. 

The  colour  surged  back  to  the  chiselled  face. 
"That's  not  him,"  she  said,  hardly  above  a  whisper 
-—"  that's  not  David." 

"  But  that's  McLarty,  ma'am.  An'  he  lives  at 
Glen  Ridge— he  told  me  so  himself." 

The  woman's  mind  seemed  to  swim  for  a  minute, 
the  struggle  sliowing  itself  in  the  troubled  eyes.  "  I 
think  I  understand,"  she  said  tremblingly  after  a 
little.     "  Isn't  this  man's  name  Peter  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,  ma'am,"  returned  the  Irishman,  after 
brief  reflection ;  "  I  think  his  minister— he's  in  the 
dining-room— told  me  that.  An'  he  looks  like  it 
might  be,  now  don't  he,  ma'am— that  there  red 
hoop-skirt  on  his  head  looks  like  his  name  was 
Peter,  don't  it  now?"  and  Dinny  did  his  best  to 
laugh,  searching  her  face  for  some  answering  merri- 
ment. 

But  the  face  before  him  bore  no  sign  just  now  of 
anything  but  tragedy.  «•  I  think  that's  the  brother 
of  the  man  I  know— the  man  I  knew."  she  said 
quietly.    "  But  you  won't  forget  what  you  promised 


I 


1 


AN  IRISH  HEART  MAKES  BOLD        57 

me?  Ytju'U  take  Irwin — if  it  should  be  necessary — 
to  the  man — to  the  man  I  said  ?  " 

Dinny's  eyes  repeated  his  vow.  "  Might  I  make 
so  bold  as  to  ask,  ma'am,"  he  went  on,  not  without 
some  hesitation,  "  what  ye  might  be  goin'  to  do 
when  ye're  at  your  journey's  end?  At  yer  Uncle 
Arthur's,  I  mean?" 

"  I'm  going  to  work,"  she  said  simply. 

"What  at?"  he  pressed;  something  about  his 
tone  and  his  look  showed  that  his  interest  was  sincere. 

"  Whatever  I  can  find  to  do — if  my  strength  re- 
turns to  me,"  she  answered  resolutely. 

"  In  a  house,  ma'am  ?" 

"  Yes — or  anywhere." 

The  Irishman's  brows  were  knit  in  thought.  Sud- 
denly his  face  lighted.  "  Sure  ye're  just  the  one  I'm 
lookin'  for,"  he  began,  as  if  a  load  were  taken  ofThis 
mind.  "  It's  some  one  o'  that  kind  I'll  be  wantin' — 
some  one  to  redd  up,  an'  give  a  hand  around  the 
tavern.  It's  plenty  o'  work  there'!'  be  to  do,  settin' 
things  to  rights  an*  gettin'  settled  down." 

"  What  tavern  ?  "  she  asked,  abstractedly ;  the  bov 
was  trying  to  draw  her  towards  the  half-open  door. 

*'  It's  in  Glen  Ridge — it's  the  tavern  where  Tim 
Loftus  used  to  kape.  An'  it's  meself  that's  goin'  to 
kape  it  now—'  The  Buck,'  that's  what  they  call  it ; 
yes, '  The  Buck  Tavern,'  that's  its  name,  even  if  it  isn't 


ft 


.'II 


tS^^j^^^^SS^^^ 


...wuri— '-T-T«rw.-    ^•517 


i 


58 


7HE   H/iNDICAP 


the  most  illigant  one  in  the  world.  Say,  niaani,  uiU 
ye  Rive  me  a  hand  wid  the  rcddin*  up?"  he  suddenly 
inquired,  comin-  to  an  impulsive  conclubion.  <'  Sure 
it  would  be  a  Gods  knulness  lu  mc,  maam,  if  je 
would,"  he  concluded.  The  eagerness  m  h.s  tone 
would  have  deceived  the  very  elect. 

She  looked  at  him  sleadla.tly,  her  finders  toying 
with  the  boys  flowing  hair.  «'  I  think  I  would."  she 
said  ;  '<  I'm  not  afraid  of  vork." 

"Then  it's  a  bargain,"   Dinny   returned  swiftly; 

"ye're  engaged  now.     An'  here,"  withdrawing  Ins 

hand  from  hi.s  pocket  as  he  spoke,  "  here's  a  pickle  o' 

wages_on  account,  like.     Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  but  ye 

must,"  as  the  woman  bc-an  to  protest;  "sure  it's 

always  a  suvrin  that  binds  a  bargain;  this  one  binds 

you— an'  the  other  fixes  me."  wherewith  he  tried  to 

thrust  the   two   coins    into   her  hand.     "  All  right, 

sonny,  take  'em  then,"  as  he  saw  Irwin's  liand  eagerly 

outstretched  ;  «  sure  it's  the  same  thing-he'U  be  the 

treasurer,  ma'am,  an'  some  day " 

-  "  Stage  for  Glen  Ridge  starts  in  fift-.en  minutes," 
suddenly  broke  in  a  stentorian  voice;  "  passe ngere 
ready  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour— Glen  Ridge  at  half- 
past  three." 

"  Holy  Moses,"  cried  Dinny  in  mock  alarm,  '•  an' 
me  niver  had  my  dinner  y  '.  An'  them  sharKs  '11 
have  the  last  potaty  inside  o'  them  in  there.     Come. 


i^i^MDumsr -'?;'siK0i,  "ar- ' 


/IN  IRISH  Hi' ART  MAKliS  HOLD        sy 

ma'am — come,  ye  little  spalpeen,"  seizing  Irwin  in 
ills  arms  as  he  spoke,  "  come  away  in  wid  me,  an' 
we'll  ate  a  spud  an'  drink  a  cup  o'  tay  to  the  pros- 
perity o'  The  Huck  Tavern  an"  its  illigant  proprietor," 
wherewith,  by  sheer  force  of  enthusiasm  and  good 
will,  he  ushered  them  to  the  now  almost  deserted 
dining-room,  the  few  inmates  gazing  with  wonder  at 
the  belated  three. 


r; 


A.  1 


H  I 


VH 


'nr.' :  •  ->r?»  -^t»-»  wime^rr* 


"i  fc^--'  ?-\'  ■ 


•I 


rv 


THE   FIGHT  /tMW'         , ,  c   PINES 


f'"^'   i^'h  the  village 

'        '»c  Sp.'ed,  so 

^    '        .ad 

nan  had 


TIIK  river  that  nicanov  a 
of  Glen    Ridge   was 
named,  there  is  littl    ' 
never  been  known  to  hurry. 

namedUsoinaspasmofinerrin.nt  ,    'eisurely, 

save  for  its  annual  spurt  whe     the  .^  ui,;    freshet 
quickened  it  to  madness,  did  the  dignified  iiitle  river 
make  its  way  between  the  banks  that  sloped  upward 
on  either  side  until  they  found  their  crown  in  hills  as 
picturesque  and  varied  as  any  m  all  the  countryside. 
And  of  thei;e  nills  Glen  Ridge  was  particularly  proud ; 
it  was  the  boast  of  her  citizens,  almost  all  of  them 
hill-born  as  they  were,  that  no  one  could  leave  the 
town—for  by  such  a  name  they  fondly  called  it  even 
then-without  going  up  a  hill.     This  was  not  ex- 
actly true,  for  there  was  one  exit  by  the  level  road 
that  skirted  the  east  bank  of  the  river-but  since  ,t 
^.    only  the  exception  that  proved  the  rule,  it  in  no 
wise  tempered  the  aspiring  claim. 

Margaret  Menzies   must  have  stood  still  a  good 
five  minutes  before  she  turned  in  at  the  gap  that  led 

60 


The  FIGHT  AMONG   The  PINES     >^\ 


up  to  the  little  farmhouse  in  the  torest.  And  well 
might  she  pause  and  look ;  for  the  scene  was  one  to 
engage  any  c}'e  that  could  detect  the  beautiful,  any 
heart  that  answered  to  the  njmantic,  in  nature's  wcm- 
drous  book.  The  distant  hills,  eacii  with  its  wooded 
crown,  melted  into  S(iftncss  against  the  evening  sky, 
all  dappled  as  it  wa«  in  crinjson,  .md  purple  and  gray. 
Lone!;,-  and  still,  with  but  a  house  here  and  there 
nestling  in  its  bosom,  the  mii;hty  trees  stood  in  their 
primeval  splendour,  a  stern  sort  ot  lonely  dignity 
about  them  as  they  loomed  alott  in  the  now  dying 
light ,  bare  and  leafless,  but  alive,  and  content  to  wait 
for  the  unforgetting  summer,  even  as  they  had  waited 
for  countless  years  before.  A  certain  nameless  pride 
seemed  to  r  ark  these  monarchs  of  the  forest;  i.iay- 
hap  they  dimly  knew  themselves  the  true  pioneers  of 
this  yet  to  be  fruitful  wilderness,  though  doomed  to 
death  at  the  hands  of  the  tiny  intruders  at  their  feet. 
The  river,  slowly  winding,  glistened  in  the  evening 
light;  only  the  central  current  could  be  seen,  sep- 
arating the  broad  decks  of  ice  that  the  hand  of  winter 
had  outbuilt  from  either  shore.  Far  in  the  distance, 
faintly  echoing,  Margaret  Menzies  fancied  she  heard, 
only  once  or  twice,  the  merry  shout  of  youthful  skat- 
ers— and  the  sound  was  one  of  mysterious  loneliness, 
so  incon^jruous  would  play  appear  to  be  amid  these 
stern  surrounuings  that  the  exiles  from  across  the  sea 


** 


f  .ill 


I 


62 


THE  H/INDICAP 


had  come  forth  to  face  and  to  subdue.     Once  .he 

happened  to  look  alolf ^^  ■i-i- sne 

tl,„  „  ,-     ,,    ,  '         '•''''•'''•'■  ""'  ""f^iniiliar  in 

.o.e    ar  back  days,  was  floating  h,  the  azure.     Had 

avMul  eye    as  ,twas,stn,cd  by  the  tension  of  the 
l.our,sl,e  though,  she  could  catch  its  g,ean,,shudder 
"«  as  she  turned  auay.     I-ar  off,  probably    t  the  dl 

-eofha,fa„,,,e,o,,theverycresto'fau.„od:. 

"U  across  the  river.she  could   descry  the  swayng 
orms  of  a  tean,  of  oxe„,  their  heads  low  bent  as  th  y 

oeso„,e  homesteader  and  his  load  towards    he 

u.Uerness.    Indeed,  even  as  she  looked,  a  light  sud- 

y  rds  beyond  the  oxen's  head ;  in  ,he  san,e  „,on,en, 
si-  eard  floating  phantom-hke  across  the  valley,  tl. 
yokel  s  shout  to  h.s  beasts  of  burden.     There  wis  a 

can,f  2,7",""'"^  '"  ""'  "'"'=  ^"'""•^-  ">«her  f  " 

h:was^:e;:™"^'""''^^'-^''^^^''-'f-so.te„ 

"No.  dear,  no,"  she  said—  I  k„„„  ^.^^^ 
Ar    nr  hves  ;  ifs  right  i„  „„e,  Irwin.     Co,„e." 
i  iow  do  you  knou-,  mother  ?  " 


The  FIGHT  AMONG   The  PINES     b) 

"  By  that,"  she  answered,  pointing  to  the  base 
of  a  mighty  pine  that  stood  close  beside  the  road. 
••  That's  what  they  told  us  in  Glen  Ridge— and  sec, 
you  can  read  those  letters,  Irwin  ?  That's  what 
they  told  us  to  look  for,"  and  she  bent  over  and 
traced  with  her  finger  the  initials  that  had  been 
carved  in  the  bark.     "  A.  A.,"  they  read. 

•'  What  does  it  mean?  "  the  lad  inquired. 

•'  It  means  Uncle  Arthur's  name,"  was  the 
ansvvo'-.  "  It  means  Arthur  AinsHe — see,  Irwin, 
tliere's  the  house,  there,  beyond  that  bunch  of 
trees." 

The  boy  soon  saw  >t  and  hastened  forward.  He 
was  hungry,  as  usual.  "  We'll  st.-"^''  all  night,  won't 
we,  mother  ? "  was  his  next  inquiry.  They  were 
now  close  to  the  little  house. 

'*  Yes,"  she  answered  nervously ;  "  yes,  I  hope 
so. 


?M1 


*  I- 


The  early  darkness  of  Canadian  winter  was  set- 
tling down  about  the  rude  cabin  before  whose 
door  Margaret  Menzies  was  almost  standing  now. 
From  the  slight  eminence  on  which  the  house  was 
built  could  be  seen  the  little  patches  of  land  that 
the  hard  toil  of  the  pioneers  had  reclaimed  from  the 
surrounding  forest ;  but  the  whispering  woods  were 
all   about,  dark   and   ominous    in  the   dying   light. 


64 


■THE   HANDICAP 


The  woman's  eye,  the  spectacle  still  unfamiliar  to 
her,   roved   once  again   over  the  far-flung  wilds,  a 
Httle  shudder  Revealing  the  sense  of  loneliness  the 
scene  produced.     Probably  she  was  thinking  of  far- 
off  bonnie   Scotland,  with  its  broad  acres  of  well- 
tilled  soil,  its  cozy  cottages,  its  garden  fruitfulness 
Its  hedges  of  bursting  brier.     Yes.  this  was  certainly 
different   enough,   rough  and  rebellious  as   the   all 
but  virgin  wilderness  is   bound   to   be.     Yet  there 
flowed   about  her-although   she   could   hardly  be 
expected  to  realize  it  yet-the  wild  air  of  freedom, 
the  breath  of  purity  ;  and  those  hills  and  trees  stood 
grandly    independent    about    her,    worthy    of   the 
coming  nation  whose  sons  should  breathe  this  air 
of    liberty,    themselves    independent  as   the  noble 
h.lls  that  should  overlook  their  homes  of  peace  and 
plenty. 

"  Irwin,"  she  began,  her  voice  not  as  steady  as 
before,  "  will  you  wait  here-tiU  mother  comes 
out?  I  won't  be  long,  dear-but  mother  wants  to 
go  in  alone  first." 

The  boy's  lip  dropped  a  little;  his  eyes,  too, 
roved  a  moment  about  the  besetting  woods.  Some' 
word  of  dissent  was  spoken. 

"But  see,  Irwin-look.  here's  a  sleigh,  dear  " 
drawing  him  towards  a  pair  of  bob-sleds  not  far 
from   the   door.  "  and   you   can   drive.  Irwin-see 


mqPot 


mmmmmmm 


■*9n< 


'The  FIGHT  AMONG   The  PINES     fo^ 

there's  a  whip — you  can  drive  till  I  come  out. 
Mother  won't  be  long." 

Thus  beguiled  the  boy  consented;  and  soon  he 
was  driving  furiously,  lashing  his  phantom  steeds 
with  high  delight.  Whereupon  Margaret  Menzies 
turned  her  face,  now  almost  as  white  as  the  snow 
about  her  feet,  towards  the  entrance  of  the  humble 
domicile.  The  door  was  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
house.  She  knew  the  man  she  sought  must  be  at 
home,  for  a  curling  stream  of  smoke  floated  from 
the  rude  chimney,  falling  back  again  upon  the  wintry 
air. 

Timidly  she  rapped  with  uncovered  hand.  It  was 
such  a  gentle  knock,  yet  it  seemed  to  echo  from  the 
Hstening  woods.  She  waited  a  little,  panting,  then 
knocked  somewhat  louder  than  before.  Then  her 
hands  went  to  her  bosom,  as  if  she  would  still  the 
turbulent  heart  beneath.  For  she  heard  a  movement 
within,  then  the  sharp  yelp  of  a  watch-dog,  followed 
by  a  stern  command  to  silence.  A  moment  later  a 
heavy  footfall  started  across  the  floor — and  Margaret 
Menzies'  face,  wrung  with  pleading  and  hope  and 
nameless  fear,  seemed  to  be  turned  to  the  cold  sky 
above  her.  Yet  already  the  stars  were  twinkling 
forth,  bravely  grappling  with  the  deepening  gloom. 

Slowly  the  door  was  opened,  a  stalwart  form  dimly 
apparent  to  her  as  she  stood  trembling  like  a  leaf. 


4    i(| 


J. 


^^WmBfl^lHP"Wl^WHH^«HnWI 


66 


THE  HANDICAP 


"  Wliy,  bless  my  heart,  it's  a  woman  !     But  what 
on  earth " 

What  the  quesfon  was  to  be  remains  unknown  • 
for.  w.th  a  low  cry.  and  with  outstretched  arms,  her 
strength  unable  longer  to  bear  up  beneath  the  stram 
-jaret    Menzies   swayed    forward,   resisting   des- 
-  tely  the  whHe.  and  would  have  fallen  prone  if 
man  before  her  had  not  flung  out  his  arms  and 
caught  her. 

Slowly,  and  very  gently,   he   half  led   and   half 
dragged  her  towards  the  fire,  a  lar,.  cha.r  standing 
empty  before  it.     «  Bless  my  heart."  he  murmured 
m  much  agitation  as  he  made  his  way.  "  did  ony- 
body  ever   ken   the  like   o'this?    Its  a  nice  like 
ookm  s.ght  I'd  be.  if  the  minister,  or  ony  ,ther  body 
found  me  wi'  a  woman  in  my  arms  !     Ma  certes  r^l 
didna'  .uink  I'd  be  so  handy  at  it."  his  face  a  study 
as  native  humour  mingled  with  deep  concern     -  Is  it 
the   cold,  think  ye?"  he  asked  solicitously  as   h, 
saw    the    woman's    eyes    opening,    for    the   weak- 
ness  was   of  brief  duration,   more   emotional   than 
physical. 

The  drooping  lashes  rose  slowly  from  the  wistful 
eyes,  which  were  now  fixed  in  yearning  eagerness 
upon  the  strong  face  above  her.  Arthur  Ainslie, 
h,s  earnest  ga^e  resting  very  intently  on  her,  was 
leaning  over  the  back  of  the  chair,  evidently  much 


:MiM^^\ 


. 


^---^'^m 


The   FIGHT   AMONG    The  PINES     67 

relieved  by  this  timely  recovery  of  his  unexpected 

guest. 

"  No,"  she  faltered,  and  the  rude  pioneer  noted 
how  low  and  sweet  was  her  voice.  «•  No,  I'm  not 
cold — but  I  was  overcome,  I  think." 

"  There's  little  doot  o'  that,"  he  answered  in  his 
blunt  Scotch  way ;  "  ye'll  be  hungry,  woman.  Wait 
a  minute  till  I  get  ye  some  bann..cks— they're  no' 
bad,"  he  afiRrmed  as  she  began  to  dissent,  "  for  I 
made  them  mysel',  an'  I  ought  to  ken." 

"  No,  no,"  «he  exclaimed ;  "  oh,  no,  I  don't  want 
anything  to  eat,  thank  you." 

"  It's  a  cold  day  for  travellin',"  he  began,  a  little 
embarrassment  m  his  manner,  after  a  somewhat 
lengthy  pause;  "  where  were  ye  bound  for,  might  I 
ask  ?  " 

The  woman  turned  her  beseeching  eyes  full  upon 
him.  "  I  was  coming  here,"  she  said,  her  face  pale 
in  the  firelight,  her  gaze  still  fixed  on  him. 

The  man's  earnest  face  was  clouded  in  perplexity. 
"  Here!  "  he  echoed.  ••  comin'  here-ye  dinna'  surely 
mean  it  was  to  this  hoose  ye  were  comin'  ?  " 

•'  Yes,"  she  answered  calmly,  her  voice  gathering 
strength,  "  yes,  to  this  house.  You're  my  Uncle 
Arthur,"  she  broke  out.  her  voice  rising  in  spite 
of  herself,  struggling  to  her  feet  ao  she  spoke. 
••  Yes.  you're  my  Uncle  Arthur-and  I'm  Margaret 


'.Jil 


y 


^  THE   HANDICAP 

Mcnzies-rm  Janet  Ainslies  daughter,  your  sister's 
child,  •  and  now  she  stood  beiore  him  with  out- 
stretched liands. 

But  he  too  was  on  his  kot.  his  face  aflame,  his  lips 
quivermtj  as  he  tried  to  speak. 

"Ve  canna'  mean  it;  no.  no,  it  canna'  be."  he 
cncd.  cummg  closer  to  her  and  touching  her  shoul- 
ders  with   both  hands,  peering  the  while  into  the 
white  face  before  his  own.     -  It  canna'  be  that  my 
dream's  come  true-what  I've  longed  for.  an'  lookit 
lor.  an'  askit  God  to  gie  me.  ever  since  Janet  died- 
ye  canna'  be  wee  Maggie,  the  bonn.e  bairn  1  left  in 
Janets   hame   lang  syne,   playin'  wi'  her   doll?     I 
nu.id  the  glint  o'  the  sunshine  on  her  hair.     Ye're 
jokin'  wi'  me.  woman." 

"  No.  uncle,"  she  returned,  her  hands  still  out- 
stretched to  him,  "no,  it's  me-I'm  Margaret 
Menzies." 

"Bide  a  minute,"  he  suddenly  directed,  "just  a 
minute-till  I  kindle  a  light,"  with  which  he  stepped 
to  the  narrow  pantry  a  i^v^  yards  away,  reappearii.g 
m  a  moment  holding  before  him  a  lighted  candle. 
Ihe  flickering  flame  fell  upon  her  face. 

•'  Aye,  aye,"  he  cried  in  an  instant,  the  voice 
broken  and  trembling  now.  "aye.  I'd  ken  ye  bv  yir 
mother.  Come.  Margaret,  come-like  ye  used  to 
when   ye  were  a  bairn,'  and  his  outstretched  arms 


^eKf^ 


mJ*i 


The  FIGHT  AMONG   The  PINES     tg 

went  about  her,  the  candle  spluttering  jealously  from 
the  little  chair  where  he  had  laid  it  down. 

But  Margaret  Menzies'  strength  seemed  to  have 
returned  greater  than  before,  for  almost  violently  she 
drew  back,  wrenching  herself  free  from  her  uncles 
arms. 

"  Don't,  Uncle  Arthur,  oh,  don't,"  she  pleaded,  her 
voice  a  wail;  "you  don't  know-or  you  wouldn't. 
Oh,  Uncle  Arthur—you  won't  want  me." 

"What?_ril  no'  want  ye.  Ve  dinna'  mean  I'll 
no'  be  wantin'  my  ain  sister's  child  unner  my  roof? 
No'  want  Janet's  Margaret,  vvha  I've  been  prayin'  to 
see  this  mony  a  lang  year  ?  Oh.  Margaret,  it's  like 
the  flowers  in  May  to  see  yir  bonnie  face." 

But  by  this  time  the  woman's  quivering  form  had 
sunk  into  the  chair  beside  her,  her  face  hidden  in 
her  hands  while  waihng  sobs  convulsed  her.  Her 
heaving  bosom  told  the  tale  of  shame  and  sorrow, 
while  now  and  then  a  low  cry  broke  from  the  trem- 
bhng  lips.  "  Oh,  what  ohall  I  do  ?  "  she  moaned  • 
"  how  can  I_how  can  I  tell  you  ?  Oh.  uncle.  I 
can't,  I  can't-for  I  know  you  won't  love  me'  I 
know  you  won't  want  me  any  more." 

"  For  God's  sake,  Margaret,  tell  me  what's  the 
matter-ye're  like  to  break  my  heart.  Is  it  a  matter 
o'  money—or  is  there  onything  ye  \vant?  Tel!  me, 
woman,"  he   pleaded,  trying  gently  to  release  her 


'I 

1.1 

f  lil 


ik\ 


i 


I 


u 


IPr'>^«i&i 


V'< 
V' 


7^  THE   HANDICAP 

face  from  her  hands,  "  an'  let  us  talk  it  oot.     I  canna' 
help  yc  till  I  ken,"  and  he  sat  down  beside  her  on 
the  arm  of  the  chair,  his  hand  timidly  touching  her 
cheek  or  gently  laid  upon  her  hair,  for  this  was  a 
situation  that  had  nut  come  often  into  his  lonely  life. 
Nothing   broke  the  silence  but  the  muffled  sobs 
at  quick  intervals  from  the  bended  one  ;  when  sud- 
denly, without   knock   or    warning,   the   door   was 
pressed  quickly  open  by  some   one  from   without. 
Both  started  where  they  sat,  their  eyes  leaping  to 
the  open  door.     "  Mother,  I'm  hungry-I'm  hungry, 
mother,"  came  the  child's  imperious  voice,  as  the 
aperture   grew   wider.     And    there,   his    hand  still 
upon  the  latch,  his  face  aglow  with  fullness  of  boy- 
hood's  health,   his    inquisitive    eyes    searching   the 
humble  house  and  lodging  at  .ast  upon  the  sleeping 
collie  by  the  hearth,  stood  the  boy;  unabashed  as 
though  his  were  the  most  welcome  presence  in  the 
world,  all  ignorant  of  the  tragedy  and  the  anguish 
for  which  his  very  being  stood,  he  slowly  closed  the 
door  behind  him  and  made  his  way,  boylike,  over 
towards  the  si;imbering  dog.     "  I  want  some  cookies, 
mother,"  he  took  time  to  inform  her  without  turn- 
ing  from   his    course,   and   he  spared   but   a  brief 
glance  for  the  face  of  the  unknown  man  on  the  arm 
of  the  chair  in  which  his  mot  jr  rested. 

Well  for  the  poor  laddie  that  he  could  not  see  that 


fr^^g^i 


The  FIGHT  AMONG  The  PIKES  71 
face!  For  it  was  terrible  to  behold.  Like  some 
rocky  promontory  it  looked  forth,  half  veiled  in 
driving  mist;  grief,  and  dismay,  and  storm  ul  soul; 
love  that  would  turn  to  bitterness,  and  hope  that  had 
turned  to  ashes ;  shock  and  shame  and  terrible  re- 
proach, with  something  like  awful  fear— all  these 
looked  out  from  the  strong  and  even  noble  face  that 
was  now  fixed  as  rigidly  on  the  httle  Irwin  as 
though  Death  himself  had  suddenly  entered  that 
cabin  door, 

Margaret  Menzies,  summoning  all  her  strength  of 
will,  slowly  turned  her  eyes  till  they  could  see  the 
face  above  her.  No  answering  look  met  her  own  ; 
her  uncle's  was  still  riveted  on  the  boy.  The  latter, 
all  unconscious  of  the  bitter  drama,  apparently  for- 
getful for  the  time  of  the  hunger  he  had  proclaimed 
so  vigorously,  was  already  on  his  knees  before  the 
fire,  his  hands  deep  in  the  woolly  sides  of  the 
startled  collie. 

But  Margaret  still  looked  steadfastly  towards  the 
face  above  he.-.  Perhaps  the  man  grew  conscious 
of  the  mute  appeal ;  in  any  case,  withdrawing  his 
eyes  from  the  boy  on  the  other  uide  of  the  roo-n, 
he  turned  slowly  about  till  his  face  looked  full  on 
Margaret's.  But  such  a  look!  She  thought  she 
beheld  in  it  the  sentence  of  death,  Jarklj-  revealed 
to  her  by   the  candle's  sombre   light— and   with    a 


ii. 


7^ 


THE   HANDICAP 


low,  surging  cry,  like  some  wild  tiling  lliat  catches 
the  fust  gUmpse  of  its  destroyer  through  the  aisles 
of  the  forest,  she  sank  to  her  knees  at  his  feet,  her 
arms  clinging  convulsively  to  him,  her  splendid  hair 
di.-,hcvellcd   as   she  crouched  low   before   his    chair. 
What  she  had  to  fear  she  knew  not.     Avenger -^f 
sin,  by  God  or  man  appointed,  she  must  have  known 
he  could  not  be.     Beyond  his  poor  power,  or  that 
of  other  mortal,  lay  the  dark  traged}-  of  her  life.     At 
the  worst,  if  worse  there  were  to  be,  she  could  be 
again  but  homeless  and  loveless,  adrift  upon  life's 
cruel  sea  as  she  had  been  before.     Yet   hers   was 
that  dark  unreasoning  fear   that  attests   the  Iking 
and  the  Wrath  of  God.     Thus,  at   least,  does  He 
make  the  wrath  of  man  to  serve  Him  ;  even  of  the 
evil  man— though  Arthur  Ainslie  was  far  from  that. 
Human  anger,  and  contempt,  and  scorn,  but  do  His 
bidding,  though  they  know  it  not.     Thus,  jealous 
though    He   be,   does    He   make   our   sinful    IcUow 
creatures,  even  when  more  guilty  than  ourselves,  to 
wreak  our  punishment.     Himself  the  Judgesupreme, 
He  yet  invests  a  thousand  deputies  with  the  right 
to  pronounce  our  guilt  and  the  power  to  execute  our 
doom. 


"  Oh,  uncle,  don't,"  she  moaned,  her  face  hidden 
deeper.     "  Oh,  Uncle  Arthur,  be  pitiful  to  me— oh. 


The  FIG  HI  AMONG    The   PINES     ■;  i 

God,  be  tncrciful,"  her  voice  risinif  to  a  cry  and 
sinkiuii  to  a  whisper  again. 

The  fire  went  out  upon  the  hearth;  still  ihc 
man  sat  erect,  still  the  woman  knelt  low,  amid  tlie 
awful  silence.  The  boy  arose,  marvelling  at  the 
strange  scene,  then  crept  soltly  across  the  tloor  and 
stood  beside  his  mother,  his  hand  sometimes  stroking 
the  soft  hair,  sometimes  vainl)'  trying  to  pat  the  hidilen 
cheek ;  once  or  twice  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  look  upcm 
the  man's  face  above  him,  then  dropped  them  quickly 
on  his  mother.  The  semi-darkness  revealed  enough, 
even  to  him. 

Margaret  Menzies  never  knew  liuu  long  she  knelt 
thus  ;  for  by  and  by  the  candle'.-^  Iccble  flame  died 
down  in  its  socket,  going  the  way  of  the  extinguished 
fire,  and  the  darkness  oi  the  Can.idian  winter  night 
swallowed  up  the  little  cabin  in  the  woods,  stealing 
in  by  the  narrow  window  opposite  the  door,  until  the 
last  ray  of  light  fled  before  it  and  left  it  in  possession 
of  hearts  and  hearth  alike.  The  keenest  mind  can 
keep  no  record  of  time  amid  darkness  such  as  this  ; 
the  minutes,  even  the  hours,  make  their  escape  un- 
known beneath  its  sheltering  mantle.  Ik't  Margaret 
Menzies  knelt  long  ;  mute,  unsobbing  now,  simply 
clinging  to  the  only  source  of  hope  and  home  left 
to  her  in  all  this  weary  world.  Once  or  twice,  in 
fullness   of  pain,  there   flitted  before  her   mind  the 


^ 


f:  I 


m 


74 


THE   HANDICAP 


II 


I 


h 


memory  of  days  now  long  pa.st  and  (led  when  she 
had   bent   by  these  selfsame  kncc-not  in  silence 
t.-n.  but  to  lisp  her  childish  prayer  when  she  could 
not   say   it   to  her   mother.     She  remembered  now 
many  a  word  of  tender  merriment,  all  the  sweeter 
because  aer  uncle  had  spoken  them  in  the  dear  lan- 
guage of  her  nat.ve  land ;  many  a  caress,  n.any  a 
good-n.ght   kiss.     How   lightly    she    had   regarded 
them  m  the  long  ago.  heedless  of  them  as  childhood 
always  is-but  how  precious  now  if  they  could  but 
come  again,  now.  when  the  silence  and  the  night  were 
hke  to  break  her  heart ! 

Swift  as  thought  there  came  before  her  the  parting 
scene,  not  yet  effaced,  when  her  uncle  had  spent  his 
last  mght  beneath  the  thatched  roof  of  the  old  home 
before  he  set  sail  for  the  Western  world;  the  grief 
the   hope,  the  thrill  of  it  all  came  over  her  once' 
agam.     She  saw  once  more  the  sweet  face  of  her 
mother  as  she  bade  good-bye  at  their  cottage  door 
to  this  same  man.  her  mother's  only  brother;  and 
^he  heard  again  the  rumble  of  the  cart  that  bore 
um    his  oaken  chest  perched  high    upon   it.  down 
he  lane  to  the  road  that  was  at  long  last  to  lead 
h.m  to  the  sea.     Then  the  letters  from  the  absent 

one.  all  so  full  of  his  new  life  and  that  new  land,  so 
frequently  received  while  her  mother  lived 

And  slowly,  following  her  train  of  thought,  there 


.  y':f^wk  'fjfmm^^smmMM^'-T^^^ 


Tnc   /■/(JUT  ^MO,\G   The  />/M£S     7^ 
swam  about  her  the  darkness  <,f  a  ,ar  later  day-tlir 
day  of  her  mothers  death  ;   ulnch  ua.  soon  tdloucU 
by  the  deeper  shadcnv  of  the  grave  m  the  old  k.rkyaid 
where  they  laid   the   dear   U,vm   to  ret.     1  hat  last 
had  been  a  temfying  gloom~.he  had  look.   :   Invn 
into   it   as   the    Scottish  winter   day  uas     !v.n^_a 
gloom  like  to  this  that  enwrapped  her  no  . .  "she 
had  learned  at  the  time,  or  shortly  a'tcr-  .nd  by 
what  means  she  scarcely  knew-that  lu  ,  :ar-d.stant 
uncle  had  been  well-nigh  broken-heartc<i     k,i   this 
only  sister  had  been  the  dearest  treasure  01  Iml  U.e. 

And  then—oh,  then-after  her  mother's  f  ice  was 
hidden  and  she  was  left  alone!    All  that  followed 
was  not  forgotten  yet-though  she  had  often  prayed 
God  to  help  her  to  forget.     Her  cheek  burned  like 
fire  even  now,  and  her  lips  were  parched  and  dry- 
those  same  lips  that  had  hardly  curbed  the  quivering 
pam  of  orphanhood  before  they  were  stilled  by  the 
fervid  kiss  of  love.     Another's  love,  new  and  won- 
derful, different  from  any  she  had  ever  known  be- 
fore!    And  then-oh,  then  !_the  darkness,  and  the 
anguish,  and  the  abyss  of  remorse  and  shame— even 
now,  crouching  in   the  gloom,  her  fluttering  heart 
leaped  in  a  wild  riot  of  half  hate,  half  madness-and 
all  of  love— as  suddenly  the  child  beside  her.  trem- 
bling too  amid  the  gloom,  tried  to  encircle  her  neck 
with  his  groping  arms.     She  started,  as  though  she 


^'^.    -   V 


f 


.,* 


m 


'»» 


i^^lks^Z 


70 


THE   HANDICAP 


would  have  torn  him  aside— then  lifted  her  own 
arms,  her  head  still  bended  low,  and  drew  him  to 
her  in  almost  savage  violence,  her  hot  lips  pressed 
upon  his  neck,  burrowing  down  in  a  dumb,  plaintive 
way  along  the  warm  soft  flesh  of  the  child  that  she 
had  borne. 

"  I  was  more  sinned  against— oh.  Uncle  Arthur— 
1  was  more  sinned  against  than  sinning,"  she  moaned 
aloud,  scarce  knowing  she  was  using  speech  at  all. 
Tl  e  boy  half  freed  himself  from  his  mother's  too 
passic-uite  clasp,  wondering  silently  what  her  strange 
speech  meant.  «ut  he  did  not  know  ;  he  still  stood 
m  the  compassionate  dark— and  the  uncle  uttered 
never  a  word. 

Wy  and  by  the  man  arose,  still  silent,  and  made 

his  way  to  the  door.     Opening  it,  he  passed  out  into 

the  night.     Just  as  he  stood  a  moment  in  the  open 

space  Margaret  Menzies  raised  her  head  and  looked. 

A    dim    film   of  light   came  through  the  door,  cast 

fr-m  the  snow  without,  and  she  could  see  her  uncle's 

face.     There  was  more  of  pity  than  of  fear   in  her 

heart  as  she  beheld  it.  for  it  was  the  face  of  anguish, 

sorrow  striving  to  hold  its  own  against  the  terrible 

wrath  that  had  been  the  first  to  possess  him.     That 

face,  usually  so  composcil  and  strong,  was   now  all 

unstrung  with    the    emotion    that  wrung    him;    the 

(juivering  lips,  the  cheeks  blanched  to  whiteness,  the 


Iff! 


The  FIGHT  AMONG   The  PINES     77 

eyes  and  brow  that  seemed  swept  by  storm,  all  told 
the  strugjjle  into  which  his  soul  had  been  thrust  so 
suddenly.  And  beyond  the  face — fit  setting  for  it — 
she  caught  a  swift  glimpse  of  the  giant  trees,  gently 
whispering  together  as  though  the  darkness  of  the 
night  had  called  them  to  communion,  great  stately 
sentinels,  almost  awful  in  their  purity  as  they  stood 
in  the  dignity  of  health  and  truth  against  the  dark- 
ened sky.  And  the  hills  too — these  were  towering 
back  of  all,  unmoved  and  immovable,  their  heads 
thrown  bajk  against  the  sk}',  in  mute  eloquence 
standing  as  though  they  impersonated  the  Judgment 
Da)-. 

Her  eyes  were  soon  hidden  again,  soon  again  the 
closing  door  shut  her  up  to  the  night  that  drenched 
the  little  cabin  with  its  gloom — but  still  she  saw, 
trembling  with  unreasoning  fear,  the  calm  and  maj- 
esty of  God  s  great  Inanimates,  so  pure,  so  jjassion- 
less,  beyond  the  ai>sault  of  temptation  or  the  bit- 
terness of  remorse. 

All  this,  tof,,  was  what  Arthur  Ainslie  sought, 
though  he  would  not  have  acknowledged  it  himself. 
He  knew  the  peril  of  the  moment,  knew  the  learful 
violence  of  his  mood — and  he  had  gone  forth  to 
seek  strength  and  comfort,  after  the  habit  of  liis  life. 
Religious  as  he  was  in  his  inmost  heart ;  sternly 
resolved  to  honour  his  Christian  profession;  pioud. 


Mm 


■  ^f~  ,-  .      V 


-TTs-iW:-, 


!' 


7«  THE   HyiNDlCAP 

in  a  secret  unconscious  way.  of  his  position  as  an 
elder  .n  the  kuk.  even  as  h,s  father  had  been  be.ore 
Inm.  .t  never  yet  occurred  to  him  that  the.e  Subl.m.t.es 
about  h.m  could  have  aught  tu  do  with  cahnin.  his 
sp.r.t   or  casting   out  the  devil  of  wrath  that  was 
ragu,g  in  his  soul.     Quite   otherwise  had   he  been 
schooled.     There   wa.    „o   worship,    he    had    been 
taught  to  believe,  except  in  direct  fellowship  with 
^od;  no  approach  to  tJ.e  Most  High  save  through 
the  appointed  channel  that  all  men  ought  to  know. 
Wherefore,  although  h,s  eyes  and  his  heart  turned 
irresistibly  towards  the  Splendour  about  him.  he  re- 
garded   it  all  with   indifference,  unconscious  of  its 
power  and  its  ministry. 

Wherefore.  Arthur  Ainslie  d.d  his  best  to  pray. 
But  wath  poor  success.     His  head  was  bared,  his  face 
slightly   upturned,  his  lips  moving  inaudibly.     But 
the  hot  tide  surged  back  upon  his  heart,  swamping 
the  good  seed  he  was  so  earnestly  trymg  to  implant ; 
and  lus  mind,  hke  his  eyes,  would  persist  in  wander- 
ing to  the  giant  trees  and  the  silent  hills  and  the 
broad  darksome  sky.     Wandering  on.  scarce  know- 
•ng   whither  his  feet  led  him.  he  found  hunsdl  enter- 
ing the  byre  ;  he  could  hear  the  heavy  breatlung  of 
the  animals,  and  they  turned.  soft-eyeJ  and  wonder- 
ing, as  he  entered.     He  stroked  one  or  two  of  tiu.„, 
tossed  them  son,e  fodder  from    the  rack-then  stood 


.?*. 


\-K:»i^\^i*'^^{^''M^:?^''^.%-.':'' 


mmmmm 


t  '1 


The   FIGHT  AMONG    The   PINES     79 

musing ;  and  while  he  was  musing  the  rire  burned. 
The  low  roof  seemed  to  sufibcate  him  ;  almost  vio- 
lently he  hurried  out,  breathing  mure  Irccly  as  he 
stood  again  beneath  the  open  sky,  the  trees  and  hills 
calmly  greeting  his  return.  The  storm  was  abating ; 
the  wind  slowly  sinking  in  his  soul.  Yet  the  tempest 
swelled  again  when  he  reflected  on  the  bitterness  of 
his  disappointment,  on  the  shame  thai  had  so  sud- 
denly befallen  him.  I<or  Margaret  Menzies'  mother 
had  been  almost  his  idol — as  nearly  so  as  anything 
human  could  ever  be  to  a  nature  such  as  his — and 
this  had  been  his  day-dream  for  many  a  weary  year, 
that  her  daughter  should  cross  the  sea  to  fill  his  lonely 
hop^e  with  the  light  and  music  of  a  woman's  pres- 
ence. Not  that  Arthur  Ainslie  would  have  acknowl- 
edged his  anger  to  be  born  of  disappointment,  even 
in  part;  oh,  no,  he  sincerely  believed  that  it  was 
born  only  of  zeal  for  the  law  of  God  that  had  been 
broken,  only  of  hatred  for  the  sin  with  whose  bitter 
fruit  he  had  been  thus  suddenly  confronted. 

Whereat  his  wrath  rose  apace  again.  "  The  way 
o'  the  transgressor  is  hard,"  he  murmured  to  himself 
— "  an'  it  deserves  to  be  ;  it's  the  will  o'  God,"  he 
added  sternly  as  he  looked  up  into  the  radiant 
heavens,  powerless  as  they  were  to  teach  him  the 
law  of  love,  the  beauty  of  compassion.  Just  then 
something  brushed  against  his  foot ;  starting  a  little. 


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he  looked  down—then  stooped  and  picked  up  the 
tiny  mewing;  form  of  a  shivering  kitten.     Poor  thing, 
it  was  so  culd,  homeless,  hunf,M>  ;    and  the  strong 
silent  heart  felt  a  strange  surge  of  pity  as  Arthur 
Ainbiie   opened   his    coat   and  thrust  the  trembling 
little  body— how  gentle  were  his  strong  rough  hands 
—close  against  his  breast.     1  iie  shuddering  creature 
nestled  towards  his  heart,  so  grateful  was  the  sudden 
warmth  ;  and  he  could  feel  the  timid  beating  of  its 
own.     Vet  he  scarcely  stopped,  walking  on  beneath 
the  frosty  sky,  the  stern  battle  still  ebbmg  and  flow- 
ing in  his  soul.     Once  or  twice  lie  heard  the  faint 
mewing  of  the  fondling  he  had  taken  to  his  bosom 
—and  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  outside  of  his  coat, 
stroking  it  as  a  woman  might  have  done. 


THE    l^ICTORY   OF   SURRENDER 

IT  was  nearly  half  an  hour  later  when  he  strode 
up,  his  head  bowed  low,  to  the  cabin  duor. 
"  Be  quiet,  Watch,"  he  said  sternly  as  he  de- 
posited the  little  kitten  on  the  lli.ur,  lor  this  had 
excited  the  dog.  'Ihen  he  struck  a  li^iit  in  the  dark- 
ness and  in  a  moment  the  candle  was  strugj^lin^; 
feebly  with  the  gloom,  lie  lui^kcti,  and  an  ex- 
pression of  dismay  broke  from  him.  The  chair  was 
empty — and  he  started  over  as  if  to  exannne  it. 
Then  he  saw,  and  his  strong  face  softened  at  the 
sight,  two  forms  on  the  rude  lounge  near  the  dark- 
ened hearth.  Margaret  was  bended  over  her  boy, 
her  dishevelled  hair  still  hanging  about  her ;  and 
the  little  fellow,  oblivious  to  tiie  cares  that  beat 
sleep  back  from  older  eyes,  was  deep  in  slumber  on 
the  pillow. 

Once,  and  once  only,  her  eyes  were  timid!}' 
lifteil  to  his.  They  fell  back,  afraid  to  look  .i-ain 
lest  the  warrant  of  her  hope  nii-ht  be  dispelled. 
But  her  bosom  rose  aiul  fell  in  a  \\.i\-  that  betokentd 
the  new  life  that  had  sprun;/  to  being  there,  .'^till 
unspcaking,  the  man  cr os'^ed  tlie  room  to  the  lifeless 

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fireplace — no  one  need  say  that  poetry  has  not  its 
native  home  in  just  such  hearts  as  these— and  silently 
fell  to  work  upon  the  wood  and  kindling  that  were 
lying  near.  A  moment  later  the  crackling  of  the 
new-born  fire  resounded  through  the  room,  and  the 
cheery  glow  chased  the  shadows  hither  and  thither 
i:i  exultant  glee.  He  swung  the  crane  above  the 
flame,  the  kettle  suspended  till  it  met  the  blaze. 

"  The  laddie  said  he  was  hungry,"  were  the  only 
words  that  came  from  his  lips  ;  "  wake  him  up— a 
wee  bit  at  a  time— an"  I'll  get  him  somethin'  guid. 
Why,  Margaret,  what's  the  matter  ?  What  ails  ye, 
Margaret  ?  "  his  tone  full  of  simple  tenderness. 

For  the  woman's  head  was  bowed  in  a  torrent 
of  tears.  Out  they  gushed,  falling  on  the  face  of 
the  sleeping  boy  till  he  stirred  uneasily  and  lifted 
his  hand  to  his  cheek.  For  Margaret  knew  the 
nature  of  the  man  beside  her  well  enough  to  recog- 
nize all  ho  meant ;  tl.e  ^ight  was  past,  she  knew  ; 
the  sprijig  had  come — and  the  very  caress  of  his 
words,  the  very  sweetness  of  the  thought  that  some 
one  cared  for  her,  after  all  the  night  of  loneliness  ; 
the  assurance  that  the  battle  in  that  great  heart 
had  issued  in  love  and  compassion  for  her— lor 
fallen  and  helpless  her— broke  up  the  fountains  of 
her  soul. 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Arthur,  yes,"  she  sobbed  incoherent!}-  ; 


The    VICTORY   of   SURRENDER    83 

"  oh,  yes,  he's  so  hungry.  Uncle  Arthur-he  said  he- 
was."  taking  the  boy  convulsively  in  her  arms  as 
she  spoke,  heedless  of  the  rude  awakening. 

Without  a  word  tho  man  turned  and  went  into  the 
little  pantry.  In  a  minute  or  two  he  came  back  with 
such  rude  fare  as  his  larder  afforded,  not  untastefully 
arranged,  and  a  little  later  the  singing  of  the  kettle 
announced  that  all  was  ready  for  the  much- needed 
meal. 

Sweet  and  rosy  from  its  bath  of  slumber  was  the 
childish  face ;  tender  and  brooding  were  the  sad  fea- 
tures of  the  woman  who  bended  above  him  while  he 
ate.  herself  with  difficulty  prevailed  upon  to  take  her 
share.     And  a  little  back  in  the  shadow,  the  keen 
eyes  fixed  upon  them  both,  sat  Uncle  Arthur.     Noble 
resolve,  and  great  peace,  had  their  home  within  his 
eyes.     It  was  the  former  that  had" given  the  latter 
birth,  though  he  knew  not  nor  cared.     His  mind 
was   busy  with  the  past;  the  sacred  past,  in  which 
Margaret  Mcnzies  and  her  now  sainted  mother  had 
filled  nearly  ail  his  life.     Those  vagrant  strands  of 
hair,  he  thought,  were  the  same  that  he  had  toyed 
with  in  the  far-off  days  when  no  shade  of  care  nor 
blight  of  cruelty  nor  stain  of  sin  had  left  its  mark  on 
the  happy  face ;  those  eyes,  now  so  sobered  with 
perplexity   and   sorrow,  the   same   whose   laughing 
love-light  had  sparkled  in  the  long  ago  when  they 


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all  lived  close  together  in  the  dear  home  beyond  the 
sea. 

liut  Hjost  of  all  were  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
buy.  Strung  of  frame  and  clean  of  limb ;  with  a 
face  marked  by  kindliness  and  intelligence,  the  deep 
eye-s  surmounted  by  a  brow  of  unusual  pruportions  ; 
with  keenness  of  mind  and  aftcctionateness  of  dispo- 
sition already  evident,  there  was  something  about  the 
lad's  whole  make-up  that  warranted  the  assurance 
that  this  was  a  lite  with  a  future.  The  keenest 
observer,  it  is  true,  could  not  have  told  what  was 
passing  through  the  mind  of  Arthur  Ainslie  as  he  ^vX 
and  looked  so  intently,  but  Margaret  found  herself 
hoping,  with  a  great  intensity  of  desire,  that  the  boy 
might  find  favour  in  her  uncle's  eyes. 

"  Well  put  him  to  bed,  Margaret,"  he  said  a  few 
minutes  later,  the  boy's  hunger  satisfied  at  last ,  "  the 
laddie's  fair  tired  oot." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  still  glancing  shyly  at  him  ; 
"  yes,  he's  tired  out." 

He  rose,  lighted  another  candle,  stepped  into 
one  of  the  little  side  rooms  that  served  as  a  sleeping 
chamber.  Some  few  minutes  were  spent  in  prepara- 
tion. "  The  bed's  ready,"  he  said  as  he  returned ; 
"come,  laddie — gang  vvi'  }  ir  mither  ; "  but  as  the 
last  two  words  rose  to  his  lips  the  storm  gathered 
on  his  brow  again,  and  Margaret  shook  like  one  of 


■The    yiCTORY   of  SURRENDER    85 

the  dead  leaves  drifting  without  llie  door,  her  voice 
Koing  to  pieces  as  she  tried  to  tell  her  boy  to  follow 
her. 

The  struggle  was  soon  over  in  the  strong  man's 
heart.  '•  liide  a  minute,  Marga- .t,"  he  said  with  the 
air  of  a  conqueror ;  "  we'll  hae  woi-ship  afore  ye  gang." 

"  Like  we  used  to,  uncle,"  she  murmured,  still  half 
afraid,  and  as  if  fearful  to  trust  her  own  voice. 

"  Yes,  like  we  used  to,"  he  answered,  his  tone  as 
composed  as  ever;  "  like  we  used  to,  Margaret,"  with 
which  he  stepped  to  the  mantel  and  took  the  Book. 
"  Wad  ye  Hke  a  psalm  ?  "  he  asked,  his  face  averted. 

"We  always  used  to,"  Margaret  answered  with 
downcast  eyes. 

"  Ye'U  hae  to  help  me,"  he  said  simply ;  "  I  canna' 
sing  like  I  used  to.     What  yin  wad  ye  like  ?  " 

Margaret  took  the  old  psalm-book  from  his  hands. 
With  sweet  and  serious  mien — for  she  was  unstained 
of  soul— she  turned  it  over,  handing  it  back  a  mo- 
ment later.     ••  That  one,"  she  said  in  a  whisper. 

"  I'll  tak"  the  bass,"  said  her  uncle,  his  eyes  soften- 
ing almost  to  moistness  as  he  marked  the  psalm  she 
had  selected ;  "  we'll  sing  it  low : 

"  '  After  Thy  lovingkindness,  Ix)rd 
Have  mercy  upon  me  ; 
For  Thy  compassic,,^  great  blot  out 
AH  mine  iniquity.'  " 


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So  ran  the  prayerful  words.  /\nd  so  they  sang, 
the  strong  man  shadin^^  his  eyes  from  the  candle- 
light with  his  hand,  the  woman  with  hers  cust  down 
upon  the  floor,  her  soul  leaping  to  her  Go. I  the 
while;  the  boy  stood  in  mute  w«jiider,  ntju  glancing 
curiously  at  the  man,  now  turning  his  ga/e  on  the 
sweet  face  of  his  mother.  And  through  it  all  the 
collie  and  the  kitten  slumbered  peacefully  by  the 
hearth  ;  througii  it  all  the  towering  trees  and  hills 
kept  then  still  vigil  beneath  the  wintry  bkies. 

The  prayer  was  shoi  I  and  simple,  mostly  composed 
of  a  fervid  appeal  that  the  Almighty  would  give 
strength  to  help  th  m  "  do  or  bear  all  it  seemed  best 
to  Him  that  they  should  bear  or  do,"  and  closed  with 
a  plea  for  grace  in  the  dying  hour,  as  was  the  custom 
of  all  pious  .Scots.  The  i^ld  phraseology — but  to- 
night it  was  touched  with  a  new  and  glowing  {)  \asion. 

Margaret  soon  laid  her  charge  to  rest  and  in  it  few 
minutes  was  back  again  by  the  fire.  Uncle  Aithur 
had  drawn  an  empty  chair  up  close  beside  his  own; 
she  took  it  without  a  word  and  they  sat  lung  in 
silence. 

liy  and  by  speech  came.  Little  by  little  >-he 
entrusted  him  with  the  story  of  the  past.  He  had 
a  hundred  questions  to  ask,  about  the  old  home, 
the  old  neighbours— but  mostly  of  Margaret's  mother, 
now  sleeping  beneath  the  sod   in    far-off  Scotland. 


The    t^lClOF.Y   of   SURRENDER    87 

And  never  a  question  did  he  put  to  her  concerning 
what  both  knew  was  all  the  time  nearest  to  their 
hearts  and  uppermost  in  their  thoughts.  It  was 
she,  and  not  without  uguish  never  to  be  told,  who 
slowly  brought  the  subject  round  to  that.     .     ,     . 

"  An'  ye  say  ye've  been  livin'  in  England  these 
last  years?"  he  asked  at  length,  turning  and  looking 
at  her  as  the  firelight  fell  on  her  burning  face. 

"  Yes,  uncle.  I  went  there — went  there,  soon — 
soon  after,"  she  answered,  her  voice  trembling. 

"  Aye,  I  understand,"  he  responded  calmly.  "  an' 
what  for.  micht  I  ask  ?  " 

Margaret  Menzies  was  silent  long.  Then  sud- 
denly she  half  rose  ii  her  seat.  "  They  were  going 
to  church  me,  uncle,  she  cried  passionately  at  last, 
her  eyes  flashing,  her  bosom  heaving.  ••  They 
ordered  me  before  the  kirk — the  session  bade  me 
appear  before  the  i.  mgregation  on  the  Sabbath 
day,  and  be  publicly  admonished,"  ^he  exclaimed, 
her  words  on  fire.  "  I  saw  it  once."  she  went  on 
excitedly;  "I  saw  a  poor  woman  one-  -and,  and 
her  child — before  the  people  in  t  e  kirk.  .\nd  I 
heard  the  minister  rebuke  her.  So  I  wouldn't — I 
couldn't — and  I  ran  away ;  I  took  Irwin  and  I  went 
away — and  I  worked  these  two  hands  nearly  to  the 
bone,"  she  -  xlaimed,  holding  them  up  before  him, 


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while  her  voice  trembled  with  anguish.  "  I  toiled 
night  and  day  for  bread  for  us—till  I  fell  sick,  uncle 
—till  I  got  afraid  I'd  die  and  leave  him.  So  I 
came  to  you— I  came  to  you,  uncle— me  and 
Irwin,"  her  breath  coming  in  little  gusts  as  the 
passion  of  her  soul  leaped  and  glowed  from  the 
flashing  eyes. 

Gently  he  comforted  her.  his  words  coming  as 
near  to  the  affectionate  as  they  ever  can  from  such 
as  he.  Yet  she  might  have  seen,  and  trembled  as 
she  saw.  the  light  of  an  inflexible  purpose  in  the 
tender  face.  What  that  purpose  was  she  was  soon 
to  know. 

"  An-  that's  whafll  gi'e  ye  peace  wi'   God,"  he 
was  saying  a  little  later,  as  he  stood  above  the  poor 
crouching  form  in  the  chair.     His  voice  was  again 
as  Scotch  as  though  he  had  left  the  heathery  hills 
but    yesterday.    A    strange    feature,    this,    about 
Arthur  Ainslie.     Although   long  absence  from  his 
native  land  had  left   his  tongue  with  only  a  relic 
of  its  old-time  Scottish  speech,  enough  at  any  time 
to  betray  its  source,  yet  ^vhenever  passion  or  deep 
feeling  took   possession   of  him   his   native  dialect 
flowed  as  freely  from  his  lips  as  ever  in  the  days  of 
youth. 

"  There's  nae  ither  thing  will  gi'e  ye   peace  wi' 
yir   Maker,"   he  went    on   solemnly.  "  but  to  own 


The    yiCTOKY   of  SURRENDER    89 

up  till  yir  sin  afore  a'  the  people ;  that's  the 
way  to  confess  Him  afore  men.  I  ken  it's  hard, 
Margaret.  I  ken  it's  hard,  for  the  present — but  the 
end  is  eternal  life,"  he  added  earnestly.  "  Then 
ye'll  hae  begun  richt — that's  what  we're  tellt,  aboot 
buildin'  on  the  rock,"  he  went  on,  nodding  gravely 
— "  the  itlicr's  on  the  sand — an'  then  ye'll  hae  yir 
new  life  afore  ye,  Margaret,"  he  pleaded  almost 
beseechingly,  stooping  now  to  touch  with  un- 
familiar hand  the  rich  tresses  of  the  bended  head. 

"  But,  uncle,"  she  pleaded,  after  much  more  had 
been  snid,  after  many  a  sobbing  reply  had  been 
made,  "  it's  for  Irwin's  sake  I  can't — it's  because  I 
love  him  so.  For  I  do,"  she  cried  almost  fiercely, 
"I  do ;  even  if,  even  if  he  is — oh,  I  cannot  say 
it — but  he's  mine,  he's  mine — and  I  love  him,  I 
think,  all  the  more  for  that^'  with  which  she  rose 
and  turned  to  the  stern  face  before  her,  her  arms 
outstretched  wide,  her  quivering  Hps  and  look  of 
untold  yearning  pouring  forth  their  rich  en- 
treaty. 

"  I  ken  that,"  he  answered  calmly,  his  lips  very 
white;  "an'  that's  the  verra  reason — it's  for  the 
laddie's  sake.  What  guid  can  ye  hope  for  yir  son 
so  lang  as  there's  a  cloud  betwixt  his  mother's 
heart  an'  God?"  Then  he  gently  drew  her  to 
the  chair,  pleading  still. 


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And  by  and  by  a  great  stillness  fell,  the  woman 
protesting  now  no  more ;  she  had  yielded-and  the 
stern  reverent  heart  of  the  man  hfted  itself  up  m 
silent  gratitude.     For  he  thought  he  did  God  service. 

When  the  silence  was  again  broken,  it  was  by 
Arthur  Ainslie's   voice      His  words  were  meant  to 
be   comforting:    -There's    naethin'   in  hfe  grander 
than  this,  Margaret,  to   redeem   the   past    wi'  the 
help  o'  Almichty  God;  to  tak"  a  life,  ye  ken.  that's 
stamed  an'  soiled,  an'  mak'  it  bricht  an'  bonnie  again. 
Ye  unnerstaun'  me,  Margaret  ?  " 
She  nodded,  silent  still,  gazing  into  the  firelight 
"  So.  Margaret,  if  ye've  wandered,  yc  ken_if  ye've 
gone  astray  frae ." 

"  I   didn't,"  she   broke  out  passionately,  "  that's 
always  the  way  with  the  world-they  lay  it  all  at 
the  woman's  door.     And  the  sin  wasn't  mine-it 
wasn't  mostly  mine."  she  amended,  rising  to  her  feet 
her  face  afla...e  and  her  words  coming  hot      Fven 
Arthur  Ainslie  marked  the  grace  ^nd  beauty  of  the 
woman  before  him.  the  poise  and  dignity  that  pas- 
sion and  purity  together  can  bestow.     "  ii  I  sinned 
my  sin    was   in    loving   too    well-in    trusting   too' 
>nip hcitly.     And    I   could  tell  you-if  I  would_I 

could  tell  you  what  would " 

Her  resolve  was  quickly  taken.     Suddenly,  after  a 


7he    VICTORY  of  SURRENDER    9, 

moment's  struggle,  she  leaned  over  and  whispered 
something  in  his  ear. 

"  What's  that  yc're  sayin'?"  and  his  words  came 
hke  the  snapping  of  a  trap,  tlie  voice  rising  almost 
to  a  cry;  "  here,  d'ye  say— here,  in  Canady— an'  no' 
far  frae  us?  Tell  me,  woman—tell  me,  in  God's 
name,"  came  almost  in  a  voice  of  thunder  as  he 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  seized  both  her  wrists,  peering 
into  her  face  with  eyes  fixed  and  hot. 

Again  she  hesitated.  Then,  the  impulse  over- 
powering her  once  more,  she  leaned  forward  till  her 
lips  were  close  to  his  ear.  But  something  restrained 
her;  her  pale  lips  trembled,  fixing  themselves  at  last 
in  rigid  stillness.  "I  can't.  Uncle  Arthur,"  she 
faltered,  her  strength  now  spent  and  gone.  "  Oh,  I 
can't,  I  mustn't— and  I  won't." 

In  vain  he  tried  to  prevail  on  her  to  speak 
the  name,  sometimes  pleading,  sometimes  slorming. 
The  woman  was  immovable.  "  Wait  till  all  love  is 
dead,"  she  said  at  last,  the  trembling  mouth  and 
overflowing  eyes  attesting  the  troubled  heart. 

"  I'd  kill  him  like  a  <vild  thing  o'  the  woods,"  he 
cried,  towering  above  her,  the  words  beginnintr  with 
a  singsong  tone,  like  some  terrible  weird  ant, 
ending  like  some  wind  breaking  in  gust  and  storm 
through  the  trees  of  the  forest.  '•  I'd  bid  him  mak' 
his  peace  wi'  God— an'  then  I'd  kill  him  where  he 


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stood  ;  "  the  sinewy  arms,  mighty  from  many  a  con- 
flict with  the  stern  foes  of  the  wilderness,  went  up 
wildly  above  his  head  as  he  spoke ;  the  veins  stood 
out  upon  his  brow  like  knotted  cords ;  and  the  flame 
in  his  eyes  was  terrible  to  behold. 

A  moment  later  he  sank  into  the  chair  beside  him, 
his  face  behind  his  toil-worn  hands,  his  body  sway- 
ing slightly  to  and  fro. 

"  God  be  mercifu'  to  me,"  he  murmured,  "  for  I'm 
a  sinfu'  man.  Me !  an  Cider  in  the  church  o'  Christ 
—Him  wha  prayed  for  His  enemies— an'  gaein' 
doon  the  aisle  wi'  the  flagon  afore  the  folks ;  an'  wi' 
murder  in  my  heart !  Oh,  Margaret,  yir  uncle's  a 
sinfu'  man,"  his  voice  eloquent  of  distress;  "ex- 
pectin'  forgiveness  frae  his  Maker— an'  hatin'  his 
brither  man." 

They  sat  long  in  silence,  Margaret  having  no  word 
to  speak.  Nothing  could  be  heard  but  the  ticking 
of  the  solemn-visaged  clock  against  the  wall.  She 
felt,  instinctively,  that  her  uncle  was  almost  oblivious 
to  his  surroundings,  engaged  alone  with  that  Presence 
whose  daily  influence  was  the  greatest  of  his  life. 
He  was  fighting  again— the  old,  old  struggle  with 
his  insurgent  heart. 

"  We'll  gang  to  oor  rest,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed, 
lifting  his  head  and  rising  to  his  feet;  "d'ye  ken 
what  time  it  is  ? "  glancing  as  he  spoke  towards  the 


v3 


The    VICTORY   of  S  U  R  R  I- X  D  E  R    ()j 

old-fashioned  clock ;  "  it's  frae  auld  .Scotland,"  de- 
noting the  timepiece  by  a  nod  in  its  direction, «« an' 
mony  a  weary  hour  it's  put  by  lor  nic — but  tliae 
lonely  days  is  past,  please  God,"  motioning  Margaret 
towards  lier  room. 

The  night  was  far  spent,  and  Margaret  had  been 
asleep  for  more  than  an  hour,  when  she  stirred  and 
gently  wakened.  A  tall  form  was  beside  the  bed, 
and  the  man's  hand  was  shadin-'  the  candle-licht 
from  her  face  as  he  looked  intently  down. 

"  What  is  it.  Uncle  Arthur  ? "  she  murmured 
wearily,  for  grief  and  fatigue  had  made  her  slumber 
deep  ;  "  did  he  cry  ? " 

"  Na,  na,"  and  even  in  her  semi-consciousness 
she  noted  the  quiver  in  his  voice  ;  "  na,  na,  he  didna' 
cry — but  I  was  thinkin'  he's  wonderfu'  like  yir 
mither,  Margaret.  I  thocht  that  a'  the  time— but 
ye  canna'  tell  wha  a  bairn's  like  till  ye  see  them 
sleepin'.  Aye,  he  minds  me  o'  Janet— my  sister 
Janet,  her  that  bides  wi'  God,"  and  he  looked  once 
igain  with  a  fondness  that  would  have  gone  far  to 
c^nnfort  Margaret's  aching  heart,  could  she  have  seen 
his  face.  Then  he  turned  and  went  slowly  from  the 
room. 

The  weary  exile  had  hardly  sunk  again  to  slumber 
before  the  form  reappeared;  this  time  the  candle 
stood  on  an  adjoining  chair.     "  I  was  thinkin"  ye'd 


! 

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be  fair  done  oot,  Margaret,"  he  half  uhispered  i„ 
rather  an  embarrassed  tone-"  an'  I  want  ye  to  let 
f.e  bairn  sleep  „i'  „«.■■  «„opj„g  ,„  ^^^  ^^^ 

'"  '"'  ""'^"^tehinff  ar,ns.  ••  Ye'll  sleep  bett..  bv 
y-el',  I'm  .hi„kin-_a„'  ye  need  yir  rest.  We'll  Z 
n.a«  a  habit  o'  't,"  he  added  half  apoioge.ically  as  he 
«..-d  the  sleeping  boy-.,  but  jus.  for  the  nicht,  ye 

^^  And^Margaret  Men.ies  fell  aga,n  on  sleep,  thank- 


I'         <    I         II 


I! 
li     I 


VI 
"  KINGS  MAY  BE  BLEST,  BUT ' 

THERE  were  several  topics  of  conversation 
on  this  particular  night  within  the  hos- 
pitable precincts  of  "  The  Buck,"  and  each 
seemed  more  absorbing  than  the  other.  It  was 
noticeable,  moreover,  that  the  interest  seemed  to 
deepen  as  the  hours  waned ;  and  by  the  time  Uinny 
had  responded  to  the  somewhat  repeated  demands 
of  his  guests  the  opinions  had  grown  more  oracular, 
the  human  feeling  more  intense. 

"  Yes,"  Judd  was  saying,  "  a  woman's  place  is  at 
home.  That's  what  I  tell  my  wife  when  - '  -  "  ints 
to  go  out  shopping  Saturday  nights— one  .ds 

always  wants  a  new  pair  o'  boots  ever  .ay 

night;  darned  U  I  don't  wish  they  were  all  born  iron- 
shod— an'  that's  what  I  say  to  the  wife's  mother,  too, 
when  she  talks  of  comin'  over  to  visit  us.  A  woman 
ain't  long  runnin'  the  streets  till  she  gets  bold  like; 

an'  when  a  woman  once  gets " 

"  That's  what  I  say,"  broke  in  a  rather  drouthy- 
looking  swain,  leaning  far  over  the  narrow  bar, 
"  regardin'— regardin'— what  were  we  talkin'  about, 

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Judd?     No,  thankee.  Mr.  Muir,"  addressing  a  very 
Scottish-looking  man  with  a  long  gray  beard,  evi- 
dently the  author  of  the  present  treat,  <•  I  won't  take 
any  more  o'  the  k.-ttle,  thank  ee-hot  water  always 
gives  my  insides  a  kind  of  a  shock;  got  scalded  once 
when  I  was  a  kid-but  I  wUl  take  a  httle  more  o' 
that  there  black  bottle."  nodding  touards  the  same, 
and  including  Dinny  in  the  nod.     The  glance,  by  the' 
wa)-.  was  rather  watery  and  confused,  and  the  articu- 
lation just  thick  enough  to  indicate  that  he  had  so 
far  escaped  the  hot  water  tolerably  well. 

"Mr.  Muir's   right,"  answered  Judd    irrelevantly 
with   a   respectful  jerk   of  the   head  towards  their 
b-nefactor;  "there  aint  nothin*  would  do  your  in- 
sides as  much  good,  right  now.  as  that  there  kettle; 
you've  had   plenty  o'   the   other.   Tim.     We  ain't 
a-goin'  to  take  you  home  on  a  stoneboat  every  night." 
he  threatened,  referring  ruefully  to  previous  deliv- 
eries; '.you'll   have   to  walk  like  other  folks-an' 
you're  pretty  near  past  that  now." 

"  Hate  hot  water."  muttered  Tim;  "  kept  this  here 
joint  for  years  myself_an'  hot  water  ain't  no  friend 
o'  the  tavern-l'^^per  Anyhow,  I  got  scalded  when 
I  was  a  lid.  What  were  v..  debatin'.  Judd?"  he 
pursued.     "  I  had  a—a  idea  on  it.  I  think." 

"  I   guess  it  got  lonely,  Tim.  an'  cut  out."  said 
Judd  with  a  grin;  -  no,  thank  you,  Mr.  Muir."  wav- 


"  K/NCfS  MAY  BE  BLEyT,  BUT 


-■•      97 

ing  UiiiJe  the  proffered  vessel — ■•  there  ain't  no  hog 
about  me,"  with  a  s.idelon{^f  glance  at  Tim.  ••  We 
was  debatin'  how  a  woman's  place  is  in  the  home,  if 
you  really  want  to  know,"  he  concluded,  rising  to 
take  a  chair  nearer  the  fireplace;  for  such,  in 
those  primitive  days,  was  still  the  romantic  mode  by 
which  even  the  public  houses  wjre  kept  in  warmth. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  responded  Tim,  delighted  to  find  his 
feet  on  the  path  again,  "  yes,  an'  you  were  sayin'  a 
woman  gets  bold,  owdacious  Uke,  when  she  gets 
runnin'  out  like  that.  That's  what  I  say  to  my  girl 
Sophia — she  praytd  at  mectin'  once— an'  I  soon 
stopped  that,  mind  ye.  bhe's  terrible  religious,  is 
Sophia — has  the  Bible  all  off  by  heart,  an'  sings 
hymns  in  her  sleep — but  I  soon  stopped  that  prayin'- 
out-loud  business.  *  We'll  soon  have  her  prayin'  all 
round  the  place,'  says  I  to  her  .  lother, '  if  this  thing 
goes  on.'  Anyhow,  a  woman's  place  is  to  keep  her 
mouth  shut — she  promises  to  do  that  when  she  gets 
married,"  concluded  Tim  sagaciously,  blinking  in  a 
very  kindly  fashion  towards  Mr.  Muir,  although 
shuddering  a  little  as  he  noticed  the  old  gentleman 
help  himself  to  some  more  of  the  hot  water. 

"  She  don't  do  nothin'  o'  the  sort,"  corrected  Judd. 

"  Certain  sure  she  does,"  retorted  Tim,  trying  to 
turn  sufficiently  in  his  chair  to  look  at  his  crony,  but 
getting  no  further  than  the  neighbourhood  of  his  right 


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'and  the  one  that  held  the  h,,u.d  '1  i.n  hoped  socu 
u  i.old.     ..  I  ^,ot  .named  myself  once,  an"  I  .n.^-ht  to 
knou-an-  so  d,d  Sophias  mother  ;  ,„e  an'  my  ,v.,e 
both    got     married  the    same   tune/'  he    nmmbled 
stru-ghng  to  recall  the  dale. 

••  Vou-re  off  your  base."  responded  Judd.  con- 
temptuously ;  <•  its  love,  honour  and  obey  she  prom- 
ises, everybody  knows  '.hat." 

"  That's  what  I  sa.d."  I  .„.  responded  in  a  maudlin 
vuice;..s.me  thmg-,f  they  love  you.  they'll  be 
wWhn  to  .cep  their  mouths  shut;  an'  .f  they'd  obey 

theydhaveto,"ashed.dhisbesttowinktrium 
piiantly  towards  Mr.  Muir. 

This  latter  ^vorthy  evidently  thought  it  time  his 

v-o.ce   should   be  heard.     Probably  the  recollection 

that  but  for  his  generosity  the  hot  water  would  have 

had  no  redeeming  fluid  confuted  him  not  a  little  in 

this  opinion.     ..  If  you're  wantmg  my  view  on  the 

matter,"  iie  began  slowly,  almost  reproachfully-..  I'll 
give  it." 

"That's  why  we  asked  you."  said  Judd  obsequi- 
ously, glancing  gratefully,  and  not  unexpectantiy  in 
the  direction  of  the  black  bottle. 

"  Sure,  that's  why  we  left  the  argyment  to  you." 
ably  seconded  poor  Tim,  struggling  hard  to  keep 
awake,  and  staring  frankly  where  Judd  had  only 
dared  to  glance.  ' 


i 


• '  KINGS  A/W  Y  Bli  DLLST.  BUT „^ 

'•  Well."  !>CKM..  Mr.  Muir.  quite  .null.r.cd  by  tins 
"'a  revard.  to  what  'lun  there  s.ud-.-Nout  pray,,.' 
at  a  n.cclm'-I  settle  it  tin.  way,  whafs  the  u..e  o' 
I>a>n>'  a  n.i.u.ter  to  d.  all  those  thiuK-s.  and  the. 
dun.'   then   yourself?"     W.ih  which  ...tcrroKat.on. 
so  vastly  was  he  in.pre.sed  by  it,  Mr.  Muir.hppcd 
off  h.s  .tool  and  abstractedly  took  hold  of  the  still 
heated  kettle.     In  a  moment,  of  course,  he  saw  his 
mistake  and  nodded   to  \hnny  for  the  other  recep- 
tacle, the  one  that  had  attracted  Tim's  somnuleni 
eye.     As  for  Tun,  behclding  this,  he  forthwith  stood 
strai^'ht    up-with    variations-prepared    to    run   all 
risks  that  Mr.  Muir  himself  might  undergo      "  Vcs  " 
emphasized   Mr.    Muir.  the   receptacle   now    in   his 
hand,  ..  that's   what  we  pay  Dr.   Leitch  his  stipend 
for.     Of  course,"  he  went  on  patronizingly,  ■<  I  don't 
know  how        is  wi,h  the  sects-you're  a  Methody, 
a.n  t  you.  Tim  ? "  this  last  in  a  tone  that  implied  the 
worst-"  but  in  our  church   .-e'd  think  it  bad  busi- 
ness, to  pay  a  man  and  then  do  it  yourself     be- 
sides "  he  enlarged,  his  face  showing  that  he  had 
struck  a  more  serious  consideration.  "  it  isn't  respect- 
ful;  .t  isn't  respectful   to  the  minister.  I  say_an' 
what's  more.  I'm  not  so  sure  that  it's  honourable' 
^o.  by  Jove."  he  went  on.  his  conviction  gaining  on 
reflection.  "  I'll  go  further  and  say  it  /.,// honourable 
And  I  believe  Dr.  Leitch  would  bear  me  out-ve= 


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would  bear  me  out.  Here,  Judd,  fill  her  up  again — 
Tim's  asleep,  I  think,"  as  he  glanced  at  the  latter,  by 
this  time  more  nearly  horizontal  than  perpendicular, 
himself  quite  indifferent  which. 

But  Tim  had  suddenly  revived ;  the  invitation  just 
extended  to  Judd  had  made  a  new  man  of  him. 
"  Yes,  Judd,"  he  mumbled  in  a  brotherly  sort  of 
way,  "  fill  her  up,  my  boy — Mr.  Muir  said  so — an' 
so  will  I,  an'  so  will  he — we  all  will.  I'll  take  the 
same,  Dinny,"  smiling  amiably  at  their  Irish  host. 

"  Ye  won't — ye'U  take  the  door,"  said  Dinny,  his 
arms  akimbo. 

"  I'll  take  whatr* "  gasped  Tim,  incredulous. 

"  Ye'll  take  the  door,"  said  Dinny — "  sure  it's  the 
road  for  you.  My  father  kep'  '  The  Black  Bull '  in 
Kilkarty  for  thirty  year,  an'  he  niver  gave  a  dhrop 
to  a  man  that  couldn't  car.y  it.  An'  that's  what  I 
want  to  have  said  about '  The  Buck ' — long  after  I'm 
playin'  on  me  golden  harp,"  concluded  Dinny,  look- 
ing piously  towards  the  roof  of  his  humble  tavern  ; 
•'  so  there  isn't  anny  more  for  ye  this  night,  Timmie," 
as  he  placed  the  bottle  far  back  on  the  shelf  behind 
him. 

But  further  progress  towards  dismissal  was  sud- 
denly arrested  by  the  ingenuity  of  Judd,  who  knew 
the  peril  of  such  a  precedent ;  and,  not  at  all  inclined 
to  have  the  genial  session  thus  concluded,  he  gave 


KINGS  MAY  BE  BLEST,  BUT- 


I0( 


the  conversation  so  interesting  a  turn  that  possession 
was  again  secure  for  an  indefinite  time. 

"  Speakin'  of  Dr.  Leitch,"  he  began,  reverting  to 
Mr.  Muir's  reference  to  him,  "  speakin'  of  Dr.  Leitch, 
Mr.  Muir,  they  tell  me — pass  the  sugar,  Dinny,  if 
you  please — they  tell  me  he's  got  a  nice  job  on  his 
hands  for  next  Sunday.     Is  that  so,  Mr.  Muir  ?  " 

"  Next  Sabbath,  you  mean,"  corrected  Mr.  Muir ; 
"  that  word  Sunday  always  rubs  me  the  wrong  way 
— wasn't  brought  up  on  it.  My  father  always 
fetched  us  one  or  two  alongside  the  head  if  we  called 
it  anything  but  the  Sabbath.  He  was  a  very  godly 
man,  my  father  was — used  to  have  family  worship 
every  time  he  seen  a  Bible.  What  were  you  speakin' 
about,  Judd?"  he  concluded,  dropping  again  into  a 
worldly  tone.  Judd  was  not  in  the  least  discon- 
certed, for  this  was  a  well-known  scruple  of  Mr. 
Muir's  ;  and  the  remarkable  thing  about  it  was,  that 
the  longer  he  tarried  within  the  genial  precincts  of 
"The  Buck"  and  the  better  he  improved  the  time 
while  there,  the  more  fastidious  became  his  con- 
science on  this  very  point.  What  was  Sunday  when 
he  entered  was  usually  the  Lord's  Day  before  he  de- 
parted, especially  if  that  departure  was  not  without 
friendly  aid.  But  this  is  characteristic  of  many 
Scotchmen  and  their  descendants ;  their  dormant 
piety    wakens   to  its   full  strength    under  influences 


.1  s/ 

If 
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such  as  these~and  the  further  tlicy  drift  from  the 
•"oraUty  of  their  fatlicrs.  the  more  pugnaciously  do 
they  cleave  to  their  theology. 

••  Ves,  I  meant  the  Sabbath,"  amended  Judd,  gulp- 
ing a  httle  at  the  word,  yet  mindful  of  past  favours 
and  not  without  hope  of  m(,re ;  "  they  tcU  me  he's 
g..in'  to  read  the  riot  act  to  that  tliere  woman  next 
Sunday  morning—that  is,  at  church  next  Sabbath," 
as  Mr.  Muir  suddenly  turned  and  looked  at  him 
rather  sharply. 

"  That  isn't  a  very  proper  way  to  refer  to  it,  Judd," 
said  the  older  man  reproachfully,  "  calling  it  a  name 
hke  that  It's  a  public  rebuke  Dr.  Leitch  is  goh.g 
to  give,  Judd— an  admonition,  I  might  say.  I'm  one 
o-  the  elders,  an'  I  ought  to  know.  It's  just  what  the 
good  Book  says:  'Your  sin  will  find  you  out'— 
that's  m  the  Bible,  you  know.  Judd,"  looking  at  him. 

nevertheless,  as  though  he  had  serious  doubts  as  to 

whether  he  knew  or  not. 
"  Oh,  yes,"  Judd  answered  a  little  impatiently, "  of 

course  everybody  knows  that.     It's  the  same  meanin' 

as   'murder   will    out';   that's   in   the    Bible   too— 

Proverbs,  I  think." 

"  Is  that  there  last  one  in  Proverbs  ?  "  inquired  Mr 
Muir.  shaking  his  head  a  httle  doubtfully  as  he  set  his 
glass  down  on  the  table  by  his  side.  <•  I  knew  it  was 
in  the  Bible,  of  course,  but  it  never  struck  me  it  was 


I  ! 


"  KINGS  MA  Y  BE  BLEST,  BUT "     103 

in  Proverbs.  Sure,  J udd  ?  "  leaninfj  back  in  Lis  chair 
and  looking  rcncctively  at  the  ccihng.  "  My  father 
could  ha'  told  as  quick  as  he  could  tell  his  own  name.  I 
mind  once  when  Dr.  Lcitch  lost  his  text— he  had  took 

too  much  snuff  while  the  psalm  was  singin'.an' " 

"Certain  sure,"  interrupted  J  udd,  in  no  mood  for 
further  saintly  reminiscences  ;  «•  well,  anyhow,  he's 
goin'  to  give  that  there  woman  asettin'outat  church, 
ain't  he?"  anxious  to  proceed  with  the  subject  in 
hand. 

"  What  woman  is  this  you're  talkin'  about  ?  "  broke 
in  Tim,  anxious  to  show  that  he  was  still  capable  of 
following  the  conversation  ;  "  let  us  know  what  we're 
discussin'  about  before  we  begin,"  nodding  towards 
Dinny  to  emphasize  the  importance  of  his  point. 

"  It's  that  there  woman  you  made  mc  stop  an'  take 
into  the  sleigli,  the  day  she  first  came  to  Glen  Rid<Te 
Don't  you  mind  how  mad  I  got  ?"  answered  J  udd. 
completely  ignoring  Tim  and  directing  his  words  to 
Dinny.  The  latter  was  listening  with  marked  intent- 
ness. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  answered  briefly;  "she  had  a 
broth  of  a  boy  wid  her— what's  this  ye  say  they're 
goin' to  do  to  her?"  and  Dinny's  face  was  quite  a 
study  as  he  leaned  over  waiting  for  an  answer. 

"  Oh,  she's  got  to  walk  the  plank ;  she's  got  to 
stand  up  an'  take  it,  afore  the  congregation,"  Judd 


F-   il 


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informed  him.  ••  Dr.  Leitch,  he's  Roin'  to  put  licr 
throijj;h  the  mill— I  bet  he  hates  it,  too.  ]Uit  it's  ;in 
old  custom.  I  hear,  nmon^'  the  Scotch  folks— the 
reliRious  ones,  leastways." 

"  What  for  ?  "  Diiniy  asked,  breathless. 
"  Oh,  well,  you  know— for  the  kid,  I  Ruess." 
'•  It's  a  lie  !  ••  said  Dinny.     ••  1), .  Ldtch  is  too  ^ood 
a  Christian  for  the  likes  o'  that ;  he'd  see  them  all  to 

before  he'd  do  annythin^  like  that  to  a  jwor 

cratur'  that's  down,  or  else  I  don't  know  the  man. 
It's  time  for  lockin'  up,  boys,"  as  he  began  vigorously 
wiping   up   the   bar  and   putting   things   to  rights, 
"  An'  the  man  that  says  Dr.  Leitch  would  do  anny- 
thing  hke  that— he's  a  liar,"  Dinny  added  savagely, 
flinging  his  cloth  at  a  neighbouring  shelf  as  bespoke. 
•'  I'm  afraid  you're  mistaken,  Mr.  Riley,"  came  Mr. 
Muir's  calm  vo  :e;  •«  the  Doctor  has  to  carry  out  the 
rules  of  the  church.     And  that's  one  of  tlum—al- 
though  it's  many  a  year  since  anything  of  the  kind 
has  happened  here.     But  the  session  said  it  should  be 
done— and  her  own  uncle  was  one  of  them  ;  Arthur 
Ainslie,  you  know — he's  her  uncle." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Dinny  ;  his  voice  sounded  far 
away,  and  the  expirssion  on  his  face  was  a  very 
troubled  one.  ••  An'  what  right  has  Dr.  Leitch— 
or  anny  other  livin'  man—what  right  has  he  to  give  a 
ton-ue  lashin'  to  that  Menzics  woman  ?  or  anu)-  other 


1 

I 


'•KINGS  MAY  BE  liLEST,  fiUT 


woman,  that's  what  I  want  to  know  ?"  and  Dmiiy 
pauicd  ;  :  he  tapped  down  tlic  lid  on  tlic  lallicr 
dcciL'pit  ci^,'ar-l)ox  tiiat  licld  tlic  cash. 

"  lie's  (he  minister,"  rephed  Mr.  .Muir,  his  tone  or-.' 
of  revet enc:c. 

".Siipp(.sni'  so— he  ain't  (iod,"  retorted  Dinny, 
reaching'  lor  a  candle,  final  si^^nal  lor  cicjsinj;  down. 

"An'  the  woman— slic  sinned, "  adtled  Mr.  Minr, 
shaking'  his  Ii'm.I  in  a  very  Trcsbyterian  way. 

"So  did  he,"  came  from  iJinny  quick  as  a  flaslu 
Tim  pulled  himself  to^'ether  at  this,  as  at  something 
he  could  not  afford  to  lose. 

"What's  that?"  demanded  Mr.  Muir  sharply; 
"  do  you  know  who  you're  talking,'  about,  Mr.  Riley  ? 
Do  you  know  you're  laying  a  charge  at  the  door  of 
our  minister— and  me  one  of  his  elders  ?  "  a-ith  which 
Mr.  Muir  rose  to  a  standing  position,  not  without 
some  difficulty,  it  must  be  admitted.  •'  You're  laying 
hands  on  the  Lord's  anointed,  Mr.  Riley,"  and  the 
elder  looked  at  the  Irishman  as  if  he  expected  t(;  see 
liim  stricken  down  where  he  stood. 

"  I'm  not  makin'  anny  charge,"  Dinny  retorted, 
doubtless  despairing  of  making  his  real  meaning 
known,  "  but  I'm  sayin'  that,  if  the  truth  was  told, 
there'd  be  just  as  many  women  rebukin'  the  minis- 
ters as  ministers  rebukin'  them.  Who  is  Dr.  Leitch, 
—or  anny  other  Doctor— to   stan'   up  an'  lambaste 


'II 


ill 

m 


it 


io6 


THE   HANDICAP 


w\ 


lii 


anny  poor  sinner  ?    Ain't  ],e-aint  all  o'  them-just 
smful  craturs  like  ourselves  ?     An'  1  won't  g..  to  the 
church."  Dinny  concluded,  "  .f  there's  ann^•  funnv 
business  hke  that  go.n'  on-sure.  Ill  .o  to  som^e 
other  church  where  they  let  Ahnighty  God  do  His 
own  ju  Jgin'.  an'  not  try  to  help  IJin>  out  like  these 
Scotchmen  here  thank  they  have  to  do.     What  is  it. 
x\ora-what  d'ye  want,  my  darlint?" 

This  unexpected  question   was  provoked  by  the 
sudden  appearance,  standing  at  the  door  of  the  little 
room,  of  his  daughter,  her  face  showing  the  embar- 
rassment  she  felt  as  the  men  turned  and  f^xed  their 
eyes  on  her.     It  was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  for  Nora 
Kiley  was  growing  into  a  beautiful  girl.     The  rich 
complexion,  so  often  the  dower  of  Erin's  daughters 
appeared    all    the    more   beautiful   because   li  ^he' 
vvealth    of   hair,    raven    black,   that    crowned    the 
shapely  head.     She  had  evidently  been  all  but  ready 
for  ret.nng.some  loose  garment  thrown  about  her- 
and  the  flowmg  tresses  floated  about  the  full,  white' 
neck,  and  fell  over  her  shoulders  till  they  came  even 
Wit^  her  waist.     Large  and  lustrous  ejxs.  wonder- 
fully touched  by  the  light  of  innocence  and  purity- 
especally  w^hen  it  is  remembered  amid  what  circum- 
stances her  loL-  was  cast-looked  out  lovingly  and 
.-/   at  her  father  behind  the  bar.     The  thin 
'e  lips  were  suggestive  of  a  refined  and  dd- 


,-*^P'kJ'-75ap-^--»!»i.-f'l^i^'^^  .   ff 


ii 
I 


"  K/NGS  MA  Y  BE  BLEST,  BUT "     ,07 

icate  nature,  the  whole  countenance  frcsli  and  su-eef 
and,  as  Dinnys  eyes  fond'  1  her  in  the  dim  candle- 
l.ght,  tlie  memory  of  her  mother's  face  surged  about 
his  heart. 

"  What  is  it.  dariint?  "  he  asked  again. 
"  Dr.  Leitch  is  here,  father-he  came  to  the  side 
<loor_and   he  asked  me  to  tell   you."     Then   she 
moved  across  the  room  io  her  father ;  evidently  there 
was  sor.iething  she  did  not  uish  the  oth.rs  to  hear. 
Judd  was  lolling  against  the  bar  as  she  came  up- 
"  Confoundedly  pretty  hair."  he  said  with  a  laugh  ' 
"  pretty  chin,  too,"  as  he  tilted  the  face  up  a  little 
with  his  hand;  "guess  your  mother  must  'a'  been  a 
beauty-you  never  got  it  from  your  dad."     The  girl 
flushed    crimson   and   sprung   aside,  beckoning  her 
father  to  the  end  of  the  counter.     He  followed,  but 
a-'  he  made  his  way  his  eyes,  ablaze,  were  fixed  on 
Judd,  the  latter  quite  oblivious. 

Nora  put  her  lips  to  her  father's  ear.  "  Dr.  Leitch 
said  he  came  to  take  Tim  home-Tim's  wife  asked 
him  to." 

Dinny's  face  looked  troubled;  this  was  a  feature 
of  his  business  quite  unfamiliar,  altogether  below  the 
high  standard  of  "  The  IJlack  Hull  "  in  Kilkarty. 

"Where  is  he?"  said  Dinny. 

"  Right  there— he's  out  in  the  hall,  waiting:." 

"  Then  why  doesn't  he  conic   in  ? "  Dinnr  mut- 


.1. 


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THE   HANDICAP 


tered,  a  little  impatiently.  -  Nobody '11  luut  him— 
I've  seen  all  the  clargy  in  Kilkarty,"  he  nn.rmurcd 
reminiscently,  the  rest  lost  in  silence.  ••  ]),•.  Ix-itch/' 
he  called—"  are  yc  there,  Doctor  ?  " 

'•  Vc.,  Dinny,  I'm  herc-l'm  waiting  to  see  a  mu- 
tual  friend,"  responded  a  rich  voice  iV-.m  the  hall; 
any  who  heard  the  words  could  have  told  the  Doctor 
was  smiling  as  he  spoke.  He  was  wont  to  say  there 
was  no  occasion  too  solemn  for  a  smile-look  on  the 
face  of  the  blessed  dead,  he  used  to  tell  the  cavillos. 

••  Then  come  in,  Doctor-come  away  in,  an'  wel- 
come. Sure  there's  two  or  three  o'  the  mutuals  here, 
as  ye  call  'em." 

Dinny's  last  words  ended  in  a  chuclHe.     For  the 
sound  of  the  Doctor's  voice  from  without  had  an 
effect  on  the  startled  guests  that  Dinny  was  not  slow 
to   notice.     Such   a   straightening   up.   and    wiping 
of  moist  lips,  and  dusting  of  a.'.y  waistcoats,  and 
general  ?r"ing  of  things  to  right  as  was  refreshing 
to  behold  !     Judd,  with  the  impulse  of  genius,  reached 
for  an  aged  copy  of  the  weekly  paper  that  was  lying 
on  the  window  sill  beside  him  and  gave  himself  up 
with  new-bor..  zeal  to  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  his 
back  turned  full  on  the  bar  as   though  he  had  re- 
nounced the  devil  aud  all  his  works.     Tim,  hardly 
less  inspired,  seized   Mr.  Muir's  hat  and  stick  from 
their  place  on  the  i\nny  and  took  his  stand  in  front 


■■■i 


Miilts.«Mkf0k 


i 


"  KINGS  MA  Y  BE  BLEST,  BU7 ,c>^ 

of  their  owner,  holding  his  possessions  out  before 
him  as  though  beseeching  the  elder  to  depart. 

Hut  Mr.  Muir's  was  the  most  masterly  beari.ig  „f 
them  all.  With  such  speed  as  his  previous  potats.ns 
would  permit,  he  possessed  himself  of  the  kettle  and 
began  pouring  its  contents  into  the  glass  beside  him, 
to  the  sad  surprise,  there  can  be  little  doubt,  of  the 
fluid  already  reposing  ther-,  unaccustomed  as  it  was 
to  such  copious  interruption.  And  there  stole 
over  Mr.  Muir's  countenance,  at  the  behest  of  a  very 
Presbyterian  will,  a  look  of  sanctity  and  grace  that 
was  usually  kept  in  strict  reserve  for  the  Sabbath  day 
and  for  that  alone. 

"  Yes,"  he  began  solemnly  as  the  Doctor's  huge 
form  came  slowly  in  the  door ;  ••  yes,  I  may  be  mis- 
taken— no  man's  perfect  in  this  world ;  they're  life- 
less that's  faultless,  as  my  father  used  to  say— he's  in 
glory  now  "—Mr.  Muir's  eyes  were  lifted  towards  the 
rafters   of  the   little   house—"  I   may  be   mistaken, 
but  if  a  man  wants  to  keep  hi^  stomach— and  his 
whole  insides— in  the  state  o'  perfection  his  Maker 
intended  them  to  be,  there's  nothing  as  good  for  him 
as  sipping  hot  water— a  little  at  a  time  ;  moderation 
in  all  things—as   my  father  said  once  when  they 
asked  him  to  increase  his  subscription  to  the  church," 
sipping  delicately  as  he  spoke  and  trying  hard  to 
smack  his  lips  thereafter,  though  the  poor  decoction 


it 


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'THE   HANDICAP 


was  as  dish-water  to  his  soul ;  <•  and  before  you  know 
it,  this  here  same  hot  water  grows  sweet  to  the  tai^te, 
sweeter    than    honey  and   the   honeycoml,  as   '.he' 
Psalmist  puts  it.     Why,  bless  my  lieart.  is  that  you, 
Dr.  Leitch  ?  "  with  a  nobly  executed  start  of  sur- 
prise;  "come  Ml,  come  on  in  and  sit  down—well 
now,  whoM  have  thought  lu  see  the  Moderator  here 
this  time  o-  night  ?     Sit  down.  Doctor,  sit  down- 
won't  you   have  a  little  hot  water  along  with  me? 
Fetch  another  glass,  Mr.  Riley,"  l,e   enjoined,  his 
hand  upon  the  kettle. 

"  Never  mind.  Mr.  Muir.  never  mind,"  responded 
the  Doctor  genially;  ••  I'm  only  going  to  stay  a 
minute-I  came  to  get  a  friend.  No,  thank  you, 
Dinny,"  waving  his  dissent  towards  the  willing  land- 
lord. ••  don't  bother  about  me;  I'm  not  much  on  hot 
water.  I'll  j„st  t.ik  >  a  sip  of  the  elder's  here,"  with 
which,  and  ail  oblivious  of  tlie  dismay  and  alarm  on 
the  elder's  face,  he  took  the  glass  from  his  hand  and 
hfted  it  to  his  lips. 

Then  he  laid  it  down.  His  lips  moved  reflectively 
once  or  twice,  as  if  a  little  puz^led.  A  queer  smile 
was  on  his  face.  "That  must  be  some  kind  of 
mineral  water.  Mr.  Muir?"  he  said,  commanding 
perlect  gravity. 

"  Noc-not  that  I  know  of."  stammered  Mr.  M:,ir. 
seizing  the  candle  with  eager  hand  and  holding  the' 


"K/XGS  MAY  BE  BLtST,  BUT 


1 1 1 


glass  between  him  and  tlio  lijiht.  "  Mr.  Riley,  u 
there  anything'  in  this  water,  sir?"  he  deinandeil 
sternly,  as  tlioii.^h  his  lile  had  been  attempted. 

••I    think    there    is,"   said    Dinny,  preternaturally 
grave. 

"  I  mean,"  corrected  Mr.  Mui-.  re^'retting  the  hne 
of  inquiry,  "  I  mean,  is  this  minora!  water,  sir?" 

"  No,  sir,  that  watter  isn't  annyihinj;  bv.t  waiter, 
sir — sure,  an'  p'r'aps  it's  the  company  it's  in  ?  " 

Which  sutjsestion  Mr.  Muir  treated  with  tl.o 
scorn  it  deserved.  «•  I  have  it.  Doctor,"  lie  suddrnly 
exclaimed,  his  face  triumphant ;  "  it's  this  brass 
kettle  here,"  holding  it  aloft  as  he  spoke ;  "  that's 
what  gives  it  that  peculiar  flavour,  Doctor;  what 
they  call  a— a  metallic  taste,  I  think.  Yes,  that's  it,  a 
metallic  taste.  Dr.  Leitch— now  that  you  speak  of  it, 
I  thought  I  noticed  it  myself." 

"  Dinny,"  said  Dr.  Leitch  solemnly,  "  I  hope  you'll 
see  this  kettle  is  thoroufhly  rinsed  out." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  Irishman,  •<  I'm  thinkin'  it 
needs  lookin'  after.  But  to  tell  ye  the  truth,  Doctor, 
there  ain't  anny  call  for  it,  to  speak  of,  only  when  yc 
come  around  yerself.  Doctor.  Mr.  Muir  mightn't  be 
needin'  it  anny  more  for  a  long  time,  Doctor— an' 
that's  the  truth  I'm  tcllin'  ye." 

It  is  doubtful  it  the  niinister  heard  Dinny's  last  re- 
mark,    r         ni  s  efforts  were  nov,'  engaging  his  atten- 


t 


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11 


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THE  HANDICAP 


II 


m 
I. 


tion.  "  Come,  Mr.  Muir,"  Tim  was  urging,  his  tone  full 
of  pleading,  "  I  can't  wait  all  night  for  you.  Sure  I've 
waited  too  long  on  you  now.  I  passed  my  word  to 
your  wile  I  wouldn't  leave  you  till  I  g(,t  you  home— 
if  it  wasn't  for  that,  I'd  be  havin'  my  beauty  sle  p 
rigiit  nun." 

"  WhPt's  that  you're  saying,  man  ? "  tl      nndcd  Mr. 
Muii  indignantly. 

"  Vou'll  have  to  help  me,  Dr.  Leitch,"  Tim  ap- 
pealed despairingly;  "  I  can't  do  nothin'  with  him— 
he'll  go  with  j^oit.l  know  he  will.  Here,  Doctor, 
you  put  it  on  him,"  lianding  the  elders  hat  to  the 
Doctor  as  he  spoke.  "  It  went  on  easy  enough  when 
he  came  in— but  it'll  likely  be  tight  for  him  now." 

This  was  too  much  for  :.Ir.  Muir.  "  Outrageous ! " 
he  snorted,  standing  erect,  by  degrees ;  ••  perfectly 
outrageous—talking  to  me,  an  elder  of  the  kirk,  like 
this— j.nd  in  the  presence  of  the  Moderator,  too. 
What  do  yoM  mean,  sir?— I  demand  an  explana- 
tion. You  seem  to  think  there's  something  wrong 
with  me.  What  is  your  meaning,  sir— what  do  you 
think  ails  me  ?  I  have  a  right  to  know,  sir,"  and  the 
elder  glared  at  him  from  above. 

"Too  much  hot  water,"  said  Tim,  sentcntiously. 
"  Come  now,  Mr.  Muir— come  with  Dr.  Leitch— you 
know  you  promised  me  an  hour  ago." 

The  elder  was  about  to  deliver  a  remarkable  reply. 


i  '  •  K/NGS  MA  Y  BE  BLEST,  BUT , ,  j 

f  But  it  never  came.     ••  Tim."  said  Ur.  Lcitch  m  a  tone 

I  of  authority,  '•  I  think  I  left  my  umbrella  out  on  the 

I  porch.     Go  and  get  it  for  me,  please."     Tim  dis- 

I  appeared. 

I  Then  the  Doctor  drew  his  colleague  aside.     ••  Mr. 

I  Muir,"    he   began   amiably,  "  I   want  your   help— I 

want  you  to  help  me  to  get  Tim  home.      1  hat's  what 

I  came  for." 

"  I  knew  it,"  almost  roared  Mr.  Muir.  "  That's 
what  I  wanted  to  tell  him,  if  I'd  had  a  chance.  I've 
been  coaxing  him  to  cohk-  tor  the  last  two  hours— 
but  I  could  do  nothing  with  the  man.  Yes,  I'll  take 
him,  Doctor— I  didn't  feel  it  was  right  for  me  to 
leave  him  here ;  you  see,  his  wife  kind  of  counts  on 
me  to  get  him  home.  Here,  Tim."  as  the  latter  ap- 
peared with  the  umbrella—"  no.  not  a  word  now— 
not  a  word.     Come,  Tim,  come." 

"Thank  you.  Doctor,"  Tim  whi.spered  gratefully; 
"  it's  you  we've  got  to  thank  for  this—no,  thank  you, 
I  don't  think  I'll  have  any  more  trouble  witij  him 
now.     He's  all  right  ofter  you  once  get  him  started." 

"  I'm  going  that  way  anyhow,"  replied  the  Doctor, 
following  fast.  "Come,  Judd-we  all  go  the  same 
road,  Jon't  wo  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  Judd  a  minute,  Doctor,  if  ye 
don't  n  md,"  said  Dinny,  and  his  lips  were  pale. 
"  I'll  send  him  after  ye  in  a  jifTy,  Doctor." 


1- 


..■:,..-•—».    j^ 


114 


THE   HANDICAP 


:  it. 


"  All  right,  Dinny ;  good-night,"  said  tlie  Doctor 
as  he  disappeared. 

Dinny  did  not  answer.  He  was  too  absorbed. 
Crossing  a  narrow  hall,  he  stole  a  quick  glance  at  the 
girlish  figure,  by  this  time  sound  asleep  upon  her 
pillow.  Then  he  came  back  and  closed  the  barroom 
door. 

"Judd,"  he  said,  his  face  ghostly  while,  "there's 
two  things  goin-  to  be  different  here.  There  ain't 
goin'  to  be  annybody  comin'  to  take  annybody 
home.  That  ain'.  tlie  kind  of  a  place  my  father 
kept-an'  it  ain't  the  kind  of  a  place  I'm  goin'  to 
keep.  Only  it  wasn't  my  fault.  An'  there's  another 
thing,  Judd-d'ye  know  what  it  is  ?"  coming  closer 
as  he  put  the  question. 

"  No,  can't  say  I  do,"  said  Judd, 
"  Then    I'll  tell  ye,"  the  words  coming  out  like 
fire   as   Dinn/   clutched   the   gasping   man   by   the 
throat  and  pinned  him  to  the  wall.     "  I  could  for- 
give ye  if  it  was  the  dhrink  that  did  it— but  it  was 
little  u'  that  ye  had.     Ye  touched  that  girl  o'  mine, 
damn    ye-ye    laid    yer    dirty    paws    on   her—ye' 
touched  her  hair,  an'   her  cheek.     An'  if  )'e  do  it 
again-I'll  kill  ye.     I'll  kill  ye,  mind-  .r  if  ye  ever 
soil  her  mother's  name  wid  yer  unclean  lips,  I'll— 
I'll  twist  yer  neck  lik-^  a  sparrow's.     Say  ye  won't- 
say  it  quick,  or  I'll " 


'KINGS  MAY  BE  BLEST.  BUT- 


1 1< 


"  For  God's  sake,  don't,  Dinny— oh,  for  God's 
sake,  let  nie  go,"  gapped  the  trenibhng  Judd,  already 
growing  black  in  the  face.  "  I  won't— no,  I  won't, 
Dinny— I  didn't  mean  anytliing,  Dinny;  I  was  only 
jokm',  .so  help  nic " 

«'  It'll  be  a  grim  juke  for  ye,  if  ye  try  it  anny 
more,"  muttered  Dinny,  relaxing  his  grip  and  turn- 
ing to  open  the  door,     "  There— go,  I  tell  ye." 

Judd  went.  And  Dimiy,  as  he  moved  about 
arranging  the  somewhat  dishevelled  room,  might 
have  been  heard  murmuring  to  himself:  "  She 
hasn't  anny  mother,  poor  darlint — she  hasn't  anny 
mother." 


li 


A 


i:fc' 


ri:!! 


•^5^^ 


..^ 


VII 


THE   COMPASSION   OF    THE   PURE 


"A 


YE,    it's    uncommon    satisfyin', '    Arthur 
Ainslie  was  saying  as   he  stood   in   the 
twilight  and  waved  his  hand  towards  the 
broad    forest,   its   dear-bought    clearances   shoving 
here  and  there;  "it's  uncommon  satisfyin' to  think 
every  year  gi'es  us  a  wee  bit  mair  o'  land  that's  guid 
for  something.     An'  it's  oor  ain-thafs   the  glory 
o'  't     It's  no'  like  it  used  to  be  in  auld  Scotland— 
nae   matter  how  ye   toiled  an'  slaved,  some  graun' 
nobleman  and  his  idle  bairns  was  gettin'  the  guid 
o'    t.     Aye.   it's   bonnie   to   see   the  place  growin' 
afore  yir  eyes-the  wilderness  blossomm'  like   the 
rose."  he  added  reverently,  the  familiar  words  of  the 
Book  coming  easily  to  his  lips. 

"  ^^^'^'^  ^  g'^eat  charm  about  growth,  and  de- 
velopment_no  doubt  of  that,  Arthur,"  answered 
Ins  minister.  For  Dr.  Leitch  had  now  known 
h.s  trusty  elder  for  years;  and  friendship  ripens 
fast  am,d  such  surroundings  as  those  of  the  early 
pioneers.  '•  It  thrills  me.  often,  when  I  try  to  realize 
all  that  future  generations  will  possess,  these  spread- 
«ng  acres,  these  rich  and  fertile  farms  that  are  yet 

ii6 


The  COMPASSION  of  The   PURE    r; 

to  be.  But  that  isn't  what  I  wanted  to  speak 
about,"  lie  suddenly  digressed,  turning  round  and 
looking  his  elder  squarely  in  the  face.  "  I  wanted 
to  speak  of— of  your  niece,  Miss  IVlenzies.  It  was 
to  sec  her  I  came  out  to-night.  I  wanted  to  speak 
to  her,  alone." 

"  She's  in  the  hoose,  yonder,"  said  Arthur  Ainslie, 
his  face  saddening  as  he  nodded  towards  t  :  cabin  a 
httle  distance  from  them;  yet  his  lijis  closed  tightly 
together  as  he  spoke,  stern  solution  written  on 
every  feature.  "  Gang  on  in,  sir,  an'  ye'il  find  her 
there." 

"  I  shrink  from  this  thing  more  than  I  can  tell," 
the  minister  began,  making  no  movement  to  obey. 
"  It's  the  hardest  duty,  I  think,  that  has  come  to  me 
in  my  ministry." 

"What  might  ye  be  referrin'  to,  Doctor?"  in- 
quired his  elder,  though  his  face  indicated  how  un- 
necessary was  the  question. 

"  You  know,  Arthur.  This  public  rebuke— this 
that  I've  got  to  say  to  her  on  Sabbath  morning.  I 
only  did  it  once  before— and  it  nearly  killed  me. 
Never  saw  it,  or  heard  it,  but  twice  in  my  life,  thank 
God — and  that  was  in  Scotland.  And  my  very  soul 
shrinks  from  it." 

"  Duty's  a  sacred  word,  sir,"  said  the  stern  man 
beside  him. 


i-. 


ii 


.  ,(P 


Ii8 


THE   HANDICAP 


"  If  I  only  felt  sure  that  it  is  a  duty,"  protested 
Dr.  Leitch,  coming  closer  to  the  other.     "  I'm  not 
so  sure  but  we're  all  wrong  abo;.t  it.     Of  course, 
I  know  all  about  her  leaving  Scotland  on  that  ac- 
count.    Aid  I  knov,   the  session  has  ordered  it— I 
do  not  doubt  their  sincerity  of  purpose— but  I  can't 
l)clp  wondering  if  any  living  man  has  a  light  to 
speak  to  a  fellow  creature  that  waj-.     Who  ain  I, 
wiio  are  you-who  is  any  of  us,"  he  went  on  with 
heightening  passion,  «  that  is  pure  enough  of  heart. 
or  holy  enough  of  life,  to  pronounce  judgment  on  a 
fellow  sinner?     Tell   me,  do  you   knou   of  one  ?  " 
peering    into    the    immobile    face    as    he    put    the 
question. 

"  Ye're  no'  pronouncin'  yir  ain  judgment,"  an- 
swered the  other  resolutely;  -ye're  speakm' in  yir 
Master's  name." 

"  That's  it,"  cried  the  minister,  "  that's  it  exactly— 
we  speak  in  the  name  of  the  Savio-ir,  the  meek  and 
gentle  Redeemer— and  nearly  always  in  the  spirit  of 
censure  and  self-righteousness,  as  if  we  were  without 
sin  ourselves.  And  if  we're  not  any  better,  not  any 
better  than  those  we  censure,"  and  his  lips  were 
white  and  set-"  if  we're  not  that,  the  whole  thing's 
a  sham.  And  if  we  are_if  we  are  truly  good,  we 
couldn't.  The  more  we're  like  the  Master,  the 
harder  we'd  find  it  to  open  our  lips  to  utter  a  single 


7h,e    COMPASSION  of  7 /i e   PUKE    119 

word,"  and  the  face  that  was  fixed  on  the  Scotchman 
before  him  was  fairly  ri^jid  in  its  intensity. 

"  Div  }e  no'  intend  to  carry  oot  the  will  o'  the 
kirk  session  ?  "  was  Arthur  Ainslie's  answer. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  minister  slowly ;  "  yes,  I'll  try  to 
do  my  duty— if  it  is  a  duty,  liut  God  knows  I  feel 
a  thousand  times  more  humbled  by  it  than  any  one 
else  can  be.  And  that's  what  I  wanted  to  speak  to 
her  about — I  wanted  her  to  know  there's  one  heart 
feels  for  her  more  than  can  be  told." 

•'  Ye'U  find  her  in  the  hoose,"  ...;d  the  elder. 

The  minister  turned  and  slowiy  made  his  way  in 
the  direction  indicated.  Knocking  gently,  and  with- 
out pausing  for  an  answer,  he  liflcd  the  latch  and 
walked  in.  Before  the  deepening  dusk  permitted 
him  to  distinguish  an)'thing  or  anybody,  a  timid 
voice  gave  him  chastened  greeting;  and  m  a  few 
minutes  he  was  seated  beside  the  woman  he  had 
come  to  see.  Her  child  was  close  beside  her,  sub- 
dued and  silent ;  doubtless  the  cloud  that  overhung 
his  mother's  heart,  with  that  quickness  of  sympathy 
that  belongs  to  childhood,  had  extended  its  shadow 
to  his  own. 

A  lew  minutes  went  by  in  ordinary  conversation, 
though  both  knew  what  was  engrossing  the  other's 
thought.  Suddenly  the  minister  broke  out  with 
what  was  on  his  heart. 


w 


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1 


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I20 


THE   HANDICAP 


'  I 


"  I  uanted  to  tell  you,"  he  began,  "  about  how— 
about  how  I  feel  for  you—regarding  what  has  to  be 
done— what  has  to  be  done  next  Sabbath." 

Margaret  Menzies  spoke  never  a  word.  Her  boy 
was  standing  by  her  chair,  and  one  hand  was  toying 
with  his  locks.     She  drew  him  closer  to  her. 

"  It's  through  no  wish  of  mine,"  the  minister  went 
on,  and  the  pain  in  his  voice  was  noticeable  even  to 
her ;  "  I  would  wish  it  otherwise  ;  but  it  seems,  since 
you— since  you  evaded  that  discinline  in  Scotland— 
as  they  call  it,"  evidently  wincing  at  the  word.  "  it 
has  to  be  gone  through  with  here— that  is,  to  remain 
in  communion  with  the  church.  And  you  wish  that, 
of  course,  do  you  not— you  wish  still  to  be  connected 
with  the  church  ?  " 

She  raised  her  head  perceotibly.     "  Yes,"  she  said, 
almost  inaudibly,  "yes,  I  v.ish  to." 

"  And  I  hope— I  hope  you  don't  feel  too  oppressed 
about  it,"  the  gentle  voice  went  on,  as  he  drew  his 
chair  closer  to  hers.  «  I  can't  tell  you  how  my  heart 
bleeds  for  you— how  I'm  thinking  of  you  and  pray- 
ing for  you.  almost  night  and  day,"  the  words  com- 
ing rather  brokenly  as  his  hand  went  out  in  the 
gloom  and  sought  her  own. 

••  I'm  broken-hearted,"  she  faltered—"  but  it's  just; 
it's  just  and  right— and  I'm  willing  to  bear  it.  I 
hope  I  have  peace  with  God,"  she  went  on,  her  eyes 


The    COMPASSION   of  The   PURE    \2\ 


cast  down  upon  the  floor,  her  voice  tremblinpj  so 
that  she  could  hardly  speak.  "And  I  know  you'll 
not  be  hard  on  me,  sir  ?  "  the  tone  full  of  wistful 
pleading  as  she  turned  her  eyes  up  to  the  pure  face 
above  her. 

This  was  too  much  for  this  minister  of  God.  lie 
arose,  a  kind  of  half  sob  brcakm^f  from  him,  and 
stood  beside  her  chair,  his  great  form  bending  low 
that  his  whisper  might  be  heard.  "  Oh,  dear  friend," 
he  began  passionately,  "  if  I  could  only  tell  you  all 
that's  in  my  heart !  If  you  only  knew  how  it  over- 
flows with  pity — and  sympathy — and  love  !  And 
how  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  know  I'm  not  worthy 
— not  worthy  to  speak  one  word  to  you  of  chiding 
or  rebuke.  Oh,  Margaret,"  he  went  on,  reckless  of 
proprieties,  his  soul  aflame,  "  any  life  may  stray,  any 
foot  may  slip.  I  know  men  who  stand  in  the  pulpit, 
who  minister  at  God's  altar — and  they  carry  about 
with  them  a  memory  just  as  bitter,  an  anguish  just  as 
deep  as  yours.  But  they  have  sought  and  found  fo-- 
giveness — they  know  the  secret  of  Redeeming  Grace. 
And  that's  what  gives  them  their  power,  Margaret — 
that's  what  makes  their  pulpits  like  golden  foun- 
tains where  the  weary  and  the  sinful  drink  and  are 
refreshed." 

The  woman  looked  up  at  him ;  and  even  in  the 
dim  light  he  could  sec  tile  pallor  and  the  wonder  of 


1 1 


- 1^ 


.,  / 


122 


THE   HAhlDlCAP 


her  startled  face.  .-O],.  sir."  she  sale],  ga^inj.  awe- 
somely even  reverently  at  him.  •■  do  you  really  think 
so  Do  you  really  think  God  takes  a  hfe.  and 
makes  it  really  pure  and  beautiful,  when  once  ,fs 
been  stained  and  broken^likc  n.ne  ?  "  she  added 
the  words  full  of  bitter  pain. 

He  bended  lower.  .<  Margaret."  he  said,  the  words 
seemang  to  fall  like  music  on  her  heart,  "shall  I  tell 
you-would  it  comfort  you.  I  wonder.  ,f  I  told  you- 
about-about—"  and  then  the  voice  fell  to  such  a 
gentle  whisper  that  the  woman  herself  could  scarcely 
hear.     She  listened  like  one  dead. 

Only  a  few  words  he  spoke,  but  they  uere  alive 
with  the  pass.on  of  tenderness  and  humility  and  love 
-and  a  great  hope  surged  through  them  all.  as  the 
ocean  surges  on  the  shore.     Then  he  lifted  his  head 
h.s  hand  still  holding  hers,  and  not  a  sound  could  be' 
heard  but  the  steady  ticking  of  the  old  clock  above 
the  mantel.    A  moment  later,  without  word  or  signal 
he  sank  to  his  knees  in  prayer;  the  wom^ 

^nelt  bes.de  h.m-the  boy.  wondering,  stood  wt.h 
his  eyes  fixed  on  them  both. 

A  fe.v  minutes  later  he  was  .one.  out  into  the 
gathenng  night,  his  eyes  moist,  his  lips  moving  his 
face  turned  to  the  s.owly-appean„g  stars.  And  Mar- 
garet Men^ies.  worshipf.,.  lost  m  wonder  and  devo- 
t.on.  gathered  her  child  to  her  bosom  and  committed 


i  1 


•The    COMPASSION   of  The    PURli    ,2, 

herself  anew  to  that  Infinite  Compassion  that  was 
nearer  and  dearer  to  her  now  than  it  had  ever 
been  before.  Again  the  darkness  wrapped  the  bare 
outhne  of  the  httle  house;  again  the  whimpering 
wind  felt  its  way  through  the  surrounding  forc.t— 
but  God  had  spoken  to  her  soul  and  the  light  of 
Hope  put  the  darkness  of  the  night  to  shame. 

The  minister's  horse  was  neighing  impatiently  as 
its  rider  came  out,  stamping  its  foot  when  that  rider 
paused,  musing,  half-way  between  the  house  and  the 
barn.     And   all   the  way  back   to   Glen  Ridge  the 
restive  creature  kept  champing  at  the  bit,  its  arched 
neck  and  mincing  pace  showing  how  ill  it  brooked 
the  ignoble  gait  that  seemed  to  suit  its  master's  mood. 
But  Dr.  Leitch's  hand  was  firm  on  the  bridle  rein  ; 
one  or  two  who  passed  him  on  the  road  remarked 
how  like  a  king  he  sat  his  horse— for  the  whole 
countryside  was  proud  of  their  equestrian  minister, 
unsurpassed  far  and  wide  for  skill  and  daring— but 
they  little  knew  what  tumult  reigned  beneath  the 
flowing  cloak  whose  ample  folds  were  known  and 
loved  for  miles  around.     They  knew  as  little  of  this 
as   they  did   of  all   his  hidden   life— all   the  close- 
guarded  secret  of  the  gentle  sympathy,  the  simple 
purity,  the  deep  and  silent  peace  that  had  been  born 
of  bitter  storm  and  conflict. 

Long  that  night  the  minister  sat  in  his  study,  his 


M 


ill 


I-  :i  II 


I 


"4 


IHE  HANDICAP 


B  ..  .1,.  n,a»,„s  .s,„,„e  M.y.  for  sl.e  culd  catch 

...to  .ho  <,,l,„  ,.e  .,„   the  hearth.     Often   t^: 

'  ™  '  "'  ""••  "■"•"•  l.i^  1«-Ts  in  his  hand.    J,u.  „,. 
sliuok   Ills  head  sadly    n„i  „„.  ,  .     ,  . 

.        J       .  ''  P      ""•  '-=ys  in  h  s  Docket 

turned  and  sat  do„,.  again  before  the  fire. 


/I 


VIII 
The  "  CHURCHING'  of  MARGARET  MENZll^S 

SABBATH  morning  slumbering  had  not  yet 
become  the  fashion  in  Glen  Ridge.  One  of 
the  fixed  opinions  of  the  good  Can.idian 
pioneers  was  that  encroachment  on  the  hours  of  the 
Lord's  Day  through  indolence,  was  just  as  sinful  as 
through  any  other  indulgence  of  the  flesh  ;  wlicrcfore 
the  early  dawn  found  them  as  usual  about  their  tasks, 
confined  though  they  were  on  the  first  day  of  the 
week  to  those  of  necessity  and  mercy. 

But  on  this  particular  Sabbath  morning  there  was 
little  inchnation  to  slumber,  even  among  the  most  lax 
and  liberal.     For  the  heart,  of  all  Glen  Ridge,  and  of 
all  the  countryside,  were  turned  this  morning  towards 
the   House   of   Prayer   and   the   more  than  usually 
solemn  exercises  to  which  they  were  looking  forward. 
Even  on  ordinary  occasions  these  solemnities  ncre 
the   chief  feature   of  their   uneventful  lives.     Mae 
than  we  of  a  later  and  busier  age-a  more  niatcnal 
too— can   understand,  their  simple  natures   found  in 
the  church  of  God  the  deepest  expression  of  their  iu- 

12; 


'*!      ' 


^ 


III 

H 

mn 

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,  r.  i 

*i^  ■ 

-i- 

;  i  1 : 

;',  il  :■  ■ 

'i  ifi  i9 

III  w 

(« 

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1-^B, 

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'■}  ' 


126 


THE   HANDICAP 


ward  life,  the  separate  luxury  of  their  forewanderiuif 
hearts. 

Long  before  the  hour  appointed  for  the  bcjiinning 
of  the  service,  the  more  ^rave  and  reverential  were 
wont  to  wend  their  \\\y  to  the  plain  and  unpreten- 
tious structure  which  served  as  their  i)lace  of  worship. 
Seeking  their  accustomed  seats— great  roomy  pews, 
with  doors  that  shut  the  worshippers  in  when  securely 
clasped  by  the  heail  of  the  house,  whose  place  was  al- 
ways  at  the  end— they  sat  in  meditative  silence  till 
the  advent  of  the  minister  announced  that  the  solemn 
exercises  were  about  to  be  begun.     There  they  sat ; 
sometimes  gazing  about  the  roomy  structure,  with 
its  pulpit  perched  aloft,  its  box  below  from  which  the 
precentor   led   the  swelling   psalm,   its   two  roomy 
fl'sles,  its  shapely  tower  from  whose  base  the  beadle 
hung  out,  over  hill  and  dale  and  forest,  the  sweet 
grave  tones  of  the  bell  that  from  the  earliest  days  had 
summoned    the   rude   worshippers    to   the  place   of 
prayer;  sometimes  with  bowed  heads  and  reflective 
air;  sometimes  turning  the  pages  of  the  I  .ole  or 
Psalm-book,  preparatory  to  the  real  business  of  the 
aour. 

On  this  particular  Sabbath  morning  the  church  was 
crowded  to  the  very  doors  long  before  the  hour  at 
which  the  service  was  to  begin.  It  was  well  known 
what   was    to    transpire   there   that   day—Margaret 


'The  "CHl'KCIUXG'  of  \iARUAniiT      1.7 

Mcnzics  was  t)  be  sumniuncJ  before  the  ^  ithercd 
confjrei;ali()ii,  to  be  publicly  rebuUed  in  the  face  of 
men  and  an^'cls.  Many  were  the  nuilllcd  si-hs, 
many  the  sober  Iicad-shakinfjs  amon^'  the  oKIt 
membeis  of  the  congrejialion ;  many  a  prayer  of 
gratitude  ascended  from  one  and  ani)ther  of  the 
matronly  liearls,  silently  rcndcnn^'  thanks  for  the  un- 
stained youthful  lives  in  the  pews  beside  them. 

The  church  was  almost  full,  when,  disturbing  the 
holy  stillness,  a  noticeable  flutter  \v  t  over  the 
con^'re^'ation.  \'et  it  ht-^ted  but  a  moment,  suc- 
ceeded by  a  solenm  hush,  nearly  all  heads  bentled 
low,  all  eyes  turned  aside  in  sympathy ;  even  a 
smothered  sob  could  be  heard  in  one  or  two  quarters 
of  the  church.  With  uncertain  footstci)s,  trembling, 
yet  sweet  and  winsome  as  ever,  her  downcast  <''es 
never  lifted  from  the  floor,  her  hot  cheeks  attesting 
the  anguish  that  wrung  her  soul,  her  lips  moving 
slightly  as  if  in  prayer,  Margaret  Menzics  passed 
down  the  aisle  of  the  crowded  church.  Onward  to 
the  front  seat  she  passed,  looking  not  to  right  or  left. 
And  beside  her,  a  little  behind,  his  hand  trying  to 
hold  her  arm  as  she  moved  on  before  him.  came 
Arthur  Ainslie ;  his  face,  solemn  as  none  had  ever 
seen  it  before,  yet  almost  distorted  in  its  pain, 
showed  that  he  felt  the  sore  ordeal  to  be  such  as  did 
God  service,  even  though  his  whole  soul  was  evidently 


1' 


11 

i 

I 


ML!    li 


H 


,t! 


ht  f 


128 


T/Zf   HANDICAP 


outpoured  in  sympathy  with  the  unhappy  woman  at 
his  side.  And  just  between  them,  his  hand  clasped 
ill  his  mother's,  a  bright  smile  on  the  boyish  face  as 
he  looked  this  way  and  that,  lagging  curiously  as  he 
tried  to  take  in  the  unfamiliar  scene,  walked  Margaret 
Wenzies'  child,  all  obiiviou.  to  the  import  of  the  hour 
and  the  bitterness  of  the  tragedy  whose  centre  was 
his  own  hapless  life. 

"  Is  he  no'  a  bonnic  laddie  ? "  one  mother  in  Israel 
whispered  to  another  as  the  little  procession  came  to 
an  end,  tl,  •  woman's  bowed  face  no  longer  visible. 

"Aye— but  he  was  shapen  in  iniquity  for  a' 
that,"  was  the  stern  response.  -  The  woman  looks 
like  an  angel— did  ye  ever  see  a  sweeter  face  ?  My 
heart's  sair  for  her,  puir  lassie.  Whisht,  the  Doctor's 
comin'— there's  Archie  wi'  the  Buik." 

Dense  silence  fell  upon  all  the  company  as  the 
door,  a  little  behind  and  at  one  side  of  the  pulpit. 
slowly  opened,  through  which  there  came  a  moment 
later,  clothed  in  such  solemnity  as  any  high  priest  of 
old  might    veil  have  envied,  the  dignitary  known  to 
all  Scottish  churchmen  as  «  the  Beadle."    A  man  of 
decidedly  ministerial    appearance,   he    loved   to  tell 
how  more  than   once  strangers  in  St.  Andrews  had 
taken  him  for  the  minister  himself,  carrying  his  own 
books,  when  he  ascended  the  pulpit  stairs.     The  pos- 
sibility of  such  a  sublime  mistake  gave  every  such 


fl 


f 

1 


The  "  CHURCHING  "  of  MARGARET      129 

appearance  the  charm  of  romance  to  him,  and  deep- 
ened the  solemn  grandeur  of  his  bearing.     Wending 
liis  way  gravely  upward,  and  laying  the  ponderous 
Bible  reverently  on  the  red  cushion  that  covered  the 
old-fashioned  pulpit,  the  beadle  cast  upon  the  waiting 
congregation  a  glance  that  gave  some  hint  of  the  gulf 
that  separated  him  from  them  and  them  from  him ; 
then  he  slowly  descended   the  creaking  stairs  and 
opened   the  door  to  admit  the  only  earthly  creature 
he  would  have  acknowledged,  in  that  hour  at  least, 
as  his  superior. 

When  Dr.  Leitch  passed  the  beadle  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  and  pressed  on,  with  averted  e^es,  towards 
the  pulpit,  a   remarkable  hush   fell  upon  the  people 
before  him.     The  stillness,  indeed,  was   almost   un- 
canny; not  a  rustling  page,  nor  a  moving  foot,  nor  a 
whispered  word— not  even  the  munching  of  the  ec- 
clesiastical peppermint,  so  freely  in  evidence  a  minute 
or  two  before— disturbed  the  silence  amid  which  all 
eyes   were  fixed   on   him   as   he  entered    the   high- 
perched  swallow-nest   pulpit,  the   beadle  closing  the 
door   behind   him   and   adjusting  the  wooden  button 
with  as  awesome  a  mien  as  though  it  belonged  to  the 
Ark  of  the  Covenant  itself. 

Nobody  could  have  looked  on  the  face  of  Dr. 
Leitch  that  Sabbath  morning  wi'.iiout  marking  the 
distress   that  was  written  on  every  lineament.     The 


i 


v\ 


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w 


•  Mil 


Ml 

J  *'l 


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ISO 


THE   HANDICAP 


approaching  duty  yawned  before  liim  like  some  dread 
chasm   that   must  yet  be  crossed;  his  tenderness  of 
heart,  his  sympathy,  his  sense  of  personal  unworthi- 
ness,  sucli  as  only  the  worthy  know,  all  combined  to 
render  the  task  before  him  one  of  anguish  not  to  be 
described.     Only  once  did  his  eyes  rest  on  the  still 
figure  bowed  in  the  pew  beneath  him,  and  then  uith 
a  fullness  of  compassion  and  wealth  of  sympathy  that 
swept  in  an  invisible  way  over  the  entire  congre- 
gation. 

The  opening  psalm  struck  a  lofty  note  of  spiritual 
helpfulness : 


1. 8 


"  Oh,  blessed  is  the  man  whose  sins 
The  Lord  hath  covered  o'er ; 
And  the  transgressions  of  whose  life 
Remembered  are  no  more  " 

were  the  gracious  words  with  which  the  stern-visaged 
worshippers  reminded  their  hearts  of  the  mighty  doc^ 
trine  of  the  Forgiveness  of  Sins.  And  in  the  prayer 
that  followed  Dr.  Leitch  made  no  reference  to  the 
thought  of  human  absolution-but  his  very  soul 
seemed  to  disport  itself  in  the  transcendent  truth  that 
there  is  mercy  with  the  Lord. 

The  sermon  was  very  short,  which  was  in  striking 
contrast  to  the  usual  custom  at  St.  Andrews  ;  and 
through  it,  like  a  silver  cord,  ran  the  thought  of  tl-,e 


The  "  CHURCHING-  of  MARGARET  ,3, 
beauty  and  glory  of  Mercy.  Some  of  the  older  saints, 
mindful  of  what  uas  to  follow  at  its  close,  thoughf  .>' 
but  a  sorry  preparation  for  tue  sombre  duty  that  re- 
mained to  be  performed 

After  Dr.  I.dtcli  had  closed  the  l?ible  he  stood  for 
almost  a  full  minute  with  bowed  head  and  downcast 
eyes.     Then  slowly  and  sadly  he  hfted  his  gaze  till  it 
rested  on  the  woman  in  the  seat  immediately  before 
him.     She  knew  that  her  hour  had  come,  and  her 
hand  went  out  in  dumb  groping  till  it  felt  and  grasped 
the  hard  palm  of  the  stern  companion  at  her  side. 
The  passion  with  which  he  returned  her  hand-clasp 
told  how  deeply  and  earnestly  he  shared  the  Geth- 
semane  of  her  soul. 

"  My  friends,"  came  from  the  pulpit  in  a  voice  that 
could  not  have  been  heard  half-way  down  the  church 
but  for  the  deathlike  stillness  that  brooded  over  the 
awestruck  throng.  "  it  rends  my  heart  more  than  any 
poor  words  of  mine  can  tell,  that  there  has  fallen  to 
your  minister,  himself  a  sinful  man.  the  duty  of  pub- 
hcly  rebuking  one  whose  life-like  his  own,  hke  all 
our  hves-has  felt  the  stain  of  sin.     I  can  only  pray 
that  He  who  is  alone  All-pure,  All-holy,  will  guide  my 
faltering  lips,  and  clothe  me  with  humility  as  with  a 
garment.     And   I  entreat  of  you  all.  mv  brethren," 
leaning  in  wistful  yearning  far  over  the  pulpir  as  he 
spoke,  the  broken  voice  vibrating  with  its  passion. 


% 


1  ■ 


ft 


'  1 


u  ' 


j, 


If; 


\32 


THE   HANDICAP 


"  I  can  only  entreat  of  you  to  listen  as  for  eternity, 
and  to  invoke  the  Divine  mercy— more  for  yourselves 
than  for  another;  and  to  remember  with  humility  and 
contrition  of  heart  that  it  is  far  worse  to  be  impure  of 
soul,  yet  never  publicly  exposed   or   branded,  than 
to   stand   guilty   before   your   fellow  men  while  yet 
conscious  of  a  true  and  forgiven  heart  towards  God- 
far  worse  to  deserve  condemnation  and  not  receive  it, 
than  to  suffer  it  and  yet  know  that  He  who  alone 
knows  all  has  also  forgiven  all.     Oh,  my  friends,"  the 
pleading  of  his  voice  deepening,  his  face  wrung  with 
the  anguish  of  his  soul,  «  whether  men  applaud  or 
condemn,  we  are  not  therefore  otherwise  than  our- 
selves—not  therefore  different,  nor  more  or  less  guilty, 
in  the  pure  eyes  of  that  great  God  with  whom,  and  with 
whom  alone,  in  the  last  appeal,  our  souls  liave  to  do. 
"  And  no^v,"  he  continued  after  a  long  and  solemn 
pause  had  succeeded  these  deep  and  searching  words, 
"  in  accordance  with  ancient  custom,  and  to  make  the 
acknowledgment  of  sin  definite  and  complete,  it  is  my 
duty  to  ask  that  the  one  amongst  us,  the  worshipper 
whom  it  is  now  my  painful  task  to  admonish  before 
you  all,  should   rise  to  her   feet  and  hear  the  words 
these  unworthy  lips  must  seek  to  utter." 

Trembling,  and  almost  stricken  by  the  dreadful 
silence,  Margaret  Menzies  .ose,  the  tall  and  comely 
form  bowed  as  she  clung  with  both  hands  to  the  seat 


•The  "  CHURCHING"  of  MARGARET      133 

before  her.  I  Icr  face  could  not  be  seen.  Curiously, 
and  with  eager  quest  of  love,  the  boy  beside  her 
plucked  his  mother's  gown  as  he  looked  up  with  per- 
plexed and  wistful  gaze  into  the  quivering  face  above 
him.  The  silence  was  oppressive,  for  Dr.  Leitch  as 
yet  had  uttered  no  word.  Still  the  woman  stood ; 
still  the  child  of  her  bosom  peered  with  awestruck 
gaze  into  his  mother's  face. 

Something,  intuitively  received,  told  the  breathless 
multitude  tnat  their  m.nister  Avas  about  to  speak. 
Indeed,  his  lips  were  already  parted  to  frame  some 
word  with  \vhich  his  awful  task  was  to  be  begun, 
when  suddenly,  without  word  or  glance,  Arthur 
Ainslie  rose  to  his  feet,  his  head  bowed  low  like  hers, 
and  took  his  place  beside  the  woman's  dark-robed 
form.  Then  once  again  did  Dr.  Leitch's  lips  seem 
sealed ;  and  stillness,  deeper  than  before,  fell  on  the 
gathered  throng. 

Something— was  it  not  the  Spirit  from  on  high  ?— 
moved  over  the  congregation  as  the  wind  of  the 
morning  ruffles  the  face  of  the  waters.  For  while  the 
silence  still  brooded  deep,  and  while  all  heads  seemed 
to  be  bowed,  the  feeble  frame  of  one  of  the  elders, 
far  back  near  the  door,  rose  slowly,  heavily  leaning 
upon  his  stafif.  Then  another,  nearer  to  where 
Margaret  and  her  uncle  were;  then  still  another, 
3  I'd   yet  another,  in   different   parts  of  the  church, 


■^k 


III 


:ii 


ft  i-'i 
fi  .1,1 

I  1  ^ 

I      P 

m  1     *  ' 


;\:^ 


m 


''4 


THE   HANDICAP 


I  -t  all  as  if  animated  by  a  common  impulse,  mysteri- 
ous though  it  was.  Till — one  by  one,  then  by  twos 
and  threes,  then  by  the  score,  and,  at  last,  as  in  a 
body — the  rising  throng  stood  in  silent  ranks  about 
the  bended  form  of  her  who  erstwhile  stood  alone  ; 
before  her,  behind,  on  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left. 
In  upon  her  they  seemed  to  clo.se,  as  those  who 
would  share  licr  place  and  put  to  flight  her  shame. 
Silent  they  stood,  every  head  bowed,  every  heart  en- 
gaged with  its  own  high  rowcerns  and  God. 

So  long  did  the  stillness  remain  unbroken,  no  sound 
issuing  from  the  pulpit  above  or  from  the  pews  be- 
neath, that  the  situation  at  length  became  too  tense 
almost  to  be  borne.  r\irtivcly,  timidly,  one  or  two 
at  length  raised  their  eyes  enough  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  marble  face,  the  gowned  and  rigid  form,  in  the 
sacred  spot  above.  And  lo  !  those  who  looked  saw 
their  minister's  face  wet  with  tears,  the  mist-stained 
eyes  aglow  with  a  great  yearning  and  a  greater  joy  as 
they  roved  in  love  and  longing  over  all  the  standing 
throng,  resting  upon  no  worshipper  who  had  not 
risen  with  the  rest. 

Long  did  the  saintly  face  of  the  minister  look  out 
on  his  beloved  people.  At  length  the  lips  opened 
once  a;;ain,  as  if  to  speak.  And  the  boldest  there 
that  day  trembled  in  wondering  fear  as  to  what  those 
words   could   be — for  the   hour  was  one  fit  for  the 


>*.«Mk!fei^^imti-'£i^^^^ 


a 


1 


'■ 


Tilt'  '•  CHURCHING  "  of  MAiiGARET      \  v-, 

Cross.  Ikit  every  liu.id  was  in  a  nioiuciit  bmvcci 
again,  luwer  tlian  bclurc  ;  for  Dr.  l.eitcl.  luul  spread 
his  hands  out  above  Iheni,  as  in  tlie  dear  tamiliarway 
they  had  known  and  loved  so  long.  And  softly, 
with  a  tenderness  like  to  that  of  the  Master  he  had 
served  so  well,  there  fell  upon  their  overncwing  hearts 
the  words  of  sweet  dismissal : 

"  And  now  unto  Him  who  loved  us  and  washed  us 
from  our  sins  in  His  own  blood,  to  Him  be  the 
kingdom,  and  the  power,  and  the  glory,  evermore. 
Amen." 


!      f. 

■  t 


f;  ii 


,;  i 


k  ii 


i 

In 

I      ! 


'  \i 


%  'f^wr^ 


..i^..'i^^*>'i^^  ^ 


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i'i'     fif-i 


9  if' 


vw 


IX 

THE   DEBATE   ACROSS    THE   BAR 

THE  years, swift  following,  had  fled  on.    And 
many  had  come  and   gone  since  Margaret 
Men.  ies  had  passed  through  her  chastening 
ordeal,  serene  in  the  peace  that  she  had  won  towards 
God,  tranquil  in  the  good-will  that  her  heart  had 
ever  cherished  towards  mankind. 

Peacefully,  in  comparative  seclusion,  had  the  long 
years  gone  by,  each  day  bringing  its  round  of  hum- 
ble tasks,  watching  as  she  did  with  unselfish  care 
over  the  interests  of  those  who  shared  with  her  the 
happy  home  life  of  Arthur  Ainslie's  farmstead.  To 
these  two—her  uncle  and  her  son-was  her  life 
given  in  unreserved  devotion,  satisfied  to  bcir  the 
lifelong  burden,  to  ripen  within  the  shadow,  u  only 
the  rich  rewards  of  love  were  not  denied  her. 

Not  alone  love— but  pride  as  well-had  filled  her 
mother-heart  as  the  years  rolled  by.  For  Irwin's 
boyhood  and  early  youth  were  now  merged  in  an 
opening  manhood  of  strength  and  promise.  Having 
early  learned,  as  was  inevitable,  of  the  darksome 
shadow  that  his  birth  had  cast,  and  from  which  his 

136 


\  m 


If 


The  DEBATE  ACROSS   The  BAR    n-j 

life  could  not  escape,  he  had  accepted  the  limitatiun 
with  the  humble  faith  and  quiet  rt  i'^nation  that  had 
given  his  mother's  life  its  beauty— and  the  resultant 
power  had  not  been  denied  his  soul. 

Gradually  takinj;  from  his  uncle's  shoulders  the 
burden  of  the  farm  toil,  he  had  yet  found  time  and 
opportunity  to  supplement  the  early  education  of  his 
ycjuth  with  a  sustained  mental  discipline  and  devo- 
tion to  books  that  had  at  length  given  him  a  place 
of  comparative  prominence  in  the  circle  amid  which 
his  lot  was  cast.  He  had,  in  particular,  developed  a 
taste  for  politics,  and  an  aptitude  for  public  speaking, 
that  was  already  making  him  the  hope  of  not  a  few, 
ambitious  that  one  of  their  own  station  in  life  should 
yet  obtain  distinction. 

The  long  years  of  toil  had  left  their  mark  on  Arthur 
Aiiislie.  Old  age  was  beginning  to  creep  upon  him, 
greeted  though  it  was  with  the  manly  fortitude  that 
had  ever  been  his  own.  Still  erect  and  strong— his 
only  marked  frailty  a  spasmodic  weakness  of  the 
heart  which  he  knew  would  ultimately  bring  it  the 
long  repose— he  cheerfully  gave  himself  up  to  all 
that  would  increase  the  comfort  or  enhance  the  hap- 
piness of  these  two  whom  he  loved  with  all  the 
strength  of  a  large  and  loving  soul.  But  business 
cares  had  helped  to  subdue  the  buoyant  fire  of  his 
nature.    Like  so   many   of   the   early  pioneers,  the 


,.,j. 


■    ^      1  . 


1! 


i'l 


■t 


H 


II 


.],^^*j^jt.A:.fm^' 


L     i 


'•"•--*. 


\'.H 


7HE   HANDIC/iP 


transition  from  the  old  home  to  the  new— from  the 
log  cabin  to  the  imposing  residence  of  brick  or  stone 
—had  come  too  soon,  effected  only  by  that  fatal  aid 
of  morti^agc,  so  often  the  banc  and  burden  of  all  the 
after  years. 

The  years  had  passed,  as  has  been  said  ;  and  they 
had  brought,  as  is  inevitable,  change  in    face   and 
frame  to  the  dwellers  on  the  humble  farm.     15ut  not 
alone  to  individuals  had  these  changes  cume  :  to  com- 
munities as  well— and  to  few  more  than  t<     "en  Ridge. 
Glen   Ridge  had  steadii)-  beaten   the  forest  back 
Little  by  little  it  had  encroached  upon  it,  redeeming 
it  to  the  civilization  of  a  now  thriving  village,  its  citi- 
zens already  beginning  to  speculate  as  to  how  soon 
their  burgh  should  attain  the  dignity  of  a  town.     And 
on  every  hand  could  be  seen  evidences  of  the  prosper- 
ity that  the  years  had  brought ;  new  stores,  with  gaudy 
windows;  factories,  with  their  tall  chimneys  belching 
smoke;  dwellings,  whose  owners  and  inmates  were 
trying  to  forget  the  humble  makeshifts  of  earlier  days. 
I^ut    many  of   the  buildings    remained  the  same, 
unchanged  with  the  changing  years.     And  one  of  the 
most  notable  of  these  was  Dinnys  domicile  and  place 
of  business,  The  13uck  Tavern,  which  still  presented 
the  same  modest  front  to  the  ever  welcome  public, 
its  creaking  sign  still  announcing  the  cheering  com- 
modity that  might  be  obtained  within. 


i 


i^l^mM^i^s^A^M^t-r^'^^i^ 


,..^^^'/5^-l> 


The  DEBATE  ACROSS   The  BAR     \}q 

On  this  particular  evening,  Uinnj—grown  older 
with  the  years,  but  almost  buoyant  as  of  yore — was 
taking  his  ease  beneath  the  blossoming  shade  of  a 
fairly  prosperous  apple  tree  whose  doom  it  wa^  to 
pass  its  uneventful  years  in  the  back  yard  of  The 
Huck  Tavern.  liusine^^  being  distinctly  dull,  no 
customers  in  prospect,  Dinny  was  enjoying  a  quiet 
smoke  while  he  read  the  news  of  the  day  as  re- 
ported in  the  Glin  Riiigc  Banner.  Suddenly  lie  gave 
a  low  whistle  and  looked  up  quickly  from  his  paper. 

"  Nora,"  he  said,  glancing  round  the  yard ;  "  I 
thought  yc  were  here,  child.  Nora,  come  here, 
Nora,"  he  called  louder. 

"  Yes,  father,"  came  fro  i  somewhere  within  the 
house.  The  voice  rang  clear  and  sweet ;  no  wonder 
Dinny  smiled,  himself  unconscious  of  it,  and  turned 
his  eyes  towards  the  weather-beaten  door  that  stood 
open  against  the  water  barrel  beneath  the  :y  rain- 
spout.  And  a  moment  later,  radiant  with  health  and 
aglow  with  exuberance  of  spirits,  there  came  tripping 
gaily  out  a  form  as  lithe  and  a  face  as  winsome  as 
ever  gladdened  a  father's  eyes.  The  fullness  of  ap- 
proaching womanhood  had  not  yet  displaced  the 
lovely  pliable  lines  that  give  to  the  girlish  form  its 
charm.  A  wealth  of  hair,  black  as  the  deepest  night, 
threw  into  beautiful  relief  the  pink  and  white  that 
come  to  perfection  only  on  the  chcfik  of  Irish  beauty  ; 


w 


V 


■I. 


n 


i  1     l\ 


I'  i 


'1:1 


11  il: 


:ij 


3 


■Jm^\ 


140 


7flF   H/INDICAP 


It    ,'i 


1(1  ', 


a  bt  w  hjfjh  ami  bioad.  aimosi  sliining  in  its  chibcLct! 
pcilcctnc>.s,  f^avc  evidence  alike  of  strcni^tli  d  intel- 
lect and  purity  ol  ^oul  ;  the  throat,  fu'l  and  firm  as  is 
inevitable  when  eiMDtion  llouers  almost  into  passion, 
led  up  tu  a  .sliapely  chin,  delicately  rounded — and, 
farther  up.  to  a  pair  of  lips  that  would  seem  to  testify 
to  all  sweetness  of  taste  and  all  gentleness  of  speech 
throuj,'li  the  lonj,'  jears  that  beauty  had  employed  in 
moulding  them  to  her  will ;  while,  looking  out  with 
a  sort  of  primal  simplicity  and  power,  the  dark  brown 
eyes  scattered  hints  of  mirth  and  seriousness,  of 
strength  and  tenderness,  with  every  witching  glance. 

"  Ves,  father,"  she  said  again,  coming  to  a  stand- 
still only  when  she  stood  beneath  the  spreading  apple 
tree,  one  half-bared  arm,  appetizmg  to  behold,  up- 
lifted towards  a  spray  of  blossoms  as  sweet  as  the 
hand  that  plucked  them  ;  "  did  you  call  me,  father  ?  " 

"  Ves,"  said  Dinny,  withdrawing  his  eyes  from  her 
and  turning  them  again  upon  the  weekly  journal ; 
"  there's  somethin'  in  this  here  paper  I  wanted  to 
show  ye.  Look  there.  Old  Hilliard's  comin'  back 
— the  old  lobster's  goin'  to  lecture  here  agin," 

"  Ililliard  ?  "  repeated  the  girl,  evidently  none  the 
wiser;  "  Hilliard— who  is  Milliard,  father?" 

"  Don't  ye  mind  him,  Nora  ?  Don't  ye  mind  that 
old  spalpeen  that  was  here  long  ago — he  was  a 
lecturer,  a  tiniperance  lecturer,  ye  mind  ?  " 


'/;  « 


^^€L£iarmjtML 


The  DEBATE  ACROSS  The  BAR     141 

Nora  knit  her  eyebrows  and  thoutjht  furiously  for 
a  moment.  "  No,"  she  said,  "  1  can't  ^;ct  any  trace 
of  him,  father.  1  guess  you're  thinking,'  of  *  ould 
Kilkarty  '  days,  before  I  was  burn,"  and  tlic  laut;h 
that  followed  set  off  her  speech  as  the  many-coloured 
blossoms  set  off  the  tree  abuvc  her. 

"  Och,  no,"  said  her  father,  niakinj;  a  mock  flouribh 
towards  her  with  the  paper  in  hi'>  hand,  ••  sure  it  was 
ri^jht  in  that  room  he  slept,  up  there  furnmst  yer 
eyes,"  pointing  with  the  Ghn  Rid-c  Hanncr  towards 
a  tiny  window  just  above  t'^em,  every  pane  blubhing 
with  fiery  emotion  as  the  setting  sun  kissed  it,  just  as, 
if  the  same  old  sun  had  not  done  the  sellsame  thing 
a  thousand  times  before.  "  I  put  him  to  bed,  up 
there — manny's  the  time  ;  used  to  do  everythin'  for 
him,  except  say  his  prayers,"  and  Dinny  grinned  as 
memory  reproduced  the  scene. 

"  Put  him  to  bed  ?  "  echoed  Nora.  "  What  for— 
was  he  naughty  ?  " 

Dinny  nodded,  the  grin  widening.  "  Naughty  as 
the  old  bhoy  himself,"  he  confirmed,  shaking  his  head 
mournfully.  "  lie's  a  Scotchman,  ye  see,  Nora — 
even  if  he  did  lecture  in  Kilkarty  once — an',  the  fuller 
he  was,  the  longer  it  took  him  to  say  his  prajers. 
There  wasn't  annything  he  didn't  [)ray  for — when  he 
was  full,"  Dinny  went  on  ruefully.  "  One  night  he 
prayed  foi  the  Pope — but  I  stopped  liim — loiu  iiiux 


•  If 


i;      ^1 


1,1 


'■fe 

^^^■1 

■ .  *  .1 

ll  f 


142 


THE   HANDICAP 


he  was  wastin'  his  time ;  an'  I  chucked  him  into  bed 
an'  put  out  the  Hght.  He  niver  zvoiild  pray  in  the 
dark — fancied  no  one  could  hear  him  then,  I  think. 
What  arii  ye  lookin'  at,  Nora  ?  "  for  the  girl,  now  tip- 
toeing from  the  lower  beam  of  the  board  fence  be- 
hind the  tree,  was  staring  down  the  street. 

"  Two  men,"  she  replied,  wiihout  turning  her  head ; 
"  two  men  coming  this  way.  One  of  them,  I  think — 
I'm  sure— is  Dr.  Leitch  ;  but  I  can't  make  out  the 
other.  He  looks  sick — I  think  Dr.  Leitch  is  helping 
him  along.  I  believe  they're  coming  here — the  one  I 
don't  know,  he's  pointing  at  the  house,  father.  I  be- 
lieve they're  coming  here." 

Dinny  rose  ;  taking  his  stand  on  an  empty  keg  that 
had  served  a  nobler  purpose  before  its  inward  glory 
was  departed,  he  took  a  long  look  down  the  road. 

"  By  the  powers,"  Nora  heard  him  mutter  ;  "  by 
the  powers  o'  Kelly  himself,  that's  I lilliard.  That's 
Hilliard — as  sure  as  the  potaty  crop  failed,"  he  went 
on,  making  his  vows  to  himself.  "  An'  he's — yes, 
he's  sick — begorra,  but  he's  sick ;  the  same  disease  he 
had  when  I  put  him  to  bed,"  he  enlarged,  quickly  re- 
pressing a  grin.  "  An'  him  got  to  lecture  to-morrow 
night — on  timperance,  too !  Bedad.  it's  a  quick  re- 
covery he'll  have  to  be  after  makin'—if  he's  goin'  to 
shillelah  us  to-morrow  night,  Nora,"  pointing  an 
illuminating  thumb  over  his  shoulder  towards  the  bar ; 


f 


The  DEBATE  ACROSS  The  BAR    143 


:^  •  \\ 


"  don't  that  beat  all  Killaloe  now 
;  stoop  down 


the  likes  o'  that  ? 


C 


N( 


ome  down, 
they  get  a  sight  av  ye." 

Both  dropped  down  behind  the  fence.  The  two 
wayfarers  drew  nearer ;  and  soon  their  voices  could 
be  heard,  evidently  in  argument. 

"  Certainly  we'll  go  in  the  front  door,"  came  the 
voice  of  the  layman — "  who  ever  heard  of  a  gentle- 
man going  in  by  a  back  yard  gate  ?  "  taking  a  new 
grip  of  the  minister's  arm  as  he  delivered  himself. 

"  I'm  going  in  that  way,"  came  the  gentle  voice  of 
Dr.  Leitch  ;  "  and  I'm  reckoned  to  be  a  gentleman — 
round  here,  at  least." 

The  other  stopped  stock  still,  swinging  around  till 
he  faced  his  companion.  "  But  I'm  more  than  a  gen- 
tleman," he  announced  with  preternatural  gravity; 
"  I'm  an  orator." 

Dr.  Leitch  smiled.  There  was  as  much  of  sadness 
as  of  pleasantry  in  the  smile.  "  I  used  to  be  one  too," 
he  said  ;  "  they  used  to  call  me  that."  The  look  in 
the  deep  lustrous  eyes  was  quite  lost  on  the  man  be- 
side him ;  but  the  story  of  long  years,  and  their  ambi- 
tion, perhaps  their  disappointment  too,  was  all  written 
there.     Those  eyes,  at  least,  were  eloquent, 

"  May  I  ask,  sir,"  the  lecturer  demanded  formally, 
"  why  you  prefer  to  apj^roach  The  Buck  Tavern  by 
this  back  door  nictuod — sneaking  in  through  a  hole 


I  * 


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144 


THE   HANDICAP 


\ 


\  a    ! 


is     1 


in  the  fence  instead  of  entering  in  by  the  door,  as  the 
Scripture  says  ?  "  he  concluded  unctuously. 

"Oh,   well,"   and  Dr.    Leitch  was  smiling;  "  ft's 
safer,  I  fancy.     To  be  plain  with  you,  I  want  to  go  in 
without — without  going  past  the  bar." 
"  Why  ?  "  demanded  the  other  quickly. 
"  Well,  because  I  consider  it— I  consider  it  more  or 
less  of  a  temptation,  sir." 

At  this  the  lecturer  stopped  still  once  more,  and 
fixed  a  very  nomadic  pair  of  eyes  on  the  minister. 
"  Sir,"  he  said  sternly,  "  your  weakness  shocks  me.  I 
thought  you  had  more  power  of  will,  sir— this  is  an 
acknowledgment.  Doctor,  that  I  wouldn't  have  ex- 
pected from  a  man  in  your  position  ;  wouldn't  have 
expected,  sir,"  he  repeated,  looking  up  pityingly  into 
the  minister's  face. 

"  I  never  made  it  before,"  said  Dr.  Leitch,  wrestling 
with  a  very  insistent  grin. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  sir,"  cried  the  other,  extend- 
mg  his  own.  «  I  honour  you  for  your  candour,  sir- 
it  takes  a  big  man  to  own  up  to  his  weakness  like 
this.  W^hy  didn't  you  tell  me  of  this  before  ?  Come, 
Doctor,  we'll  go  in  the  back  gate,  as  you  wish— I'd 
go  in  underground,  on  my  hands  and  knees,  before 
I'd  make  my  brother  to  offend,  as  the  Apostle  says." 
The  two  men  were  now  close  to  the  fence.  But 
the  lecturer  seemed  to  be  still  struggling  with  the 


!■■!! 


The  DESA'iE  ACROSS  The  BAR  145 
moral  side  of  the  situation.  "  Nobody  ever  knows  " 
he  was  saying,  as  much  to  himself  as  to  the  Doctor ; 
"  nobody  would  have  thought  that  the  minister  of  St. 
Andrews  has  his  own  struggles,"  he  ruminated— 
"  it  all  goes  to  show  what  a  hold  the  accursed  stuff 
gets  of  a  man,  no  matter  who  he  is.  And  so  you 
hate  to  pass  a  bar.  Doctor,"  he  went  on  in  a  rather 
louder  tune ;  "  hate  to  pass  a  bar,  eh  ?  " 

The  Doctor  nodded,  smiling  and  hurrying  towards 
the  gate.  The  blossom-laden  boughs  fell  just  above 
it. 

But  the  lecturer  stopped  him  again,  adjusting 
an  index  finger  in  the  topmost  buttonhole  of  the 
Doctor's  broadcloth.  Then  he  winked  twice,  with  a 
solemnity  that  put  the  broadcloth  to  shame.  "  So  do 
I,"  he  whispered,  indulging  at  the  same  time  a 
grimace  who.e  significance  Dr.  Leitch  was  at  a 
loss  to  understand  ;  "  I  hate  to  pass  one  too— when 
I'm  like  this,"  with  which  illuminating  remark  he 
actually  made  a  jocular  thrust  at  the  Doctor's  anat- 
omy with  an  extended  thumb,  the  first  time,  doubt- 
less, such  a  familiarity  had  been  attempted  in  all  the 
history  of  Glen  Ridge. 

For  answer,  the  minister  stepped  forward  to  the 
gate,  holding  it  open  with  as  much  grace  and  dignity 
as  though  he  were  admitting  a  prince  of  the  realm. 
The  lecturer  stopped  midway,  drawing  close  to  the 


r . 


iii 


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■i 

1:      ; 

M 


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W  1 

i 
i 


146 


THE   HANDICAP 


Doctor    and    placing    his   lips   almost   to   his  ear; 

"  You're  safe  with  me,"  he  whispered  reassuringly 

"  no  living  soul  will  ever  know  what  you've  told  me ; 
wild  horses  couldn't  pull  it  out  of  me,"  he  added, 
nodding  desperately  towards  the  Doctor  as  he  made 
his  vows. 

By  this  time  Dinny  was  on  his  way  over  to  meet 
his  visitors.  "  The  top  o'  the  evcnin'  to  ye,  Doctor," 
he  cried  cheerily,  hurrying  forward  with  outstretched 
hand.  "  It's  welcome  ye  are.  An'  I'U  be  blissed  if 
this  ain't  my  old  friend  Hilliard— how  are  ye,  Mr. 
Hilliard  ?  Come  here,  Nora,  come  an'  speak  to  the 
gintlemen,"  beckoning  to  the  comely  girl  who  was 
slowly  following  in  the  rear. 

Nora  shook  hands  with  the  minister,  ccurtesying 
shyly  to  the  stranger.  "  Sure  this  isn't  anny  sort  of 
a  place  for  entertainin'  company,"  Dinny  suddenly 
affirmed ;  "  come  on  in  wid  me,  into  the  house. 
Come,  Doctor — come,  Mr.  Hilliard ;  sure  it's  proud 
the  old  place'll  be  to  see  ye  again  after  all  these 
years." 

But  Mr.  Hilliard  raised  his  hand  in  solemn  pro- 
test, taking  his  stand  between  Dinny  and  the  minis- 
ter. "  No,"  he  said  firmly,  •«  we'll  stay  here — here, 
under  the  sweet  and  innocent  apple  blossoms,  un- 
stained by  the  foul  aroma  that  destroys  body  and 
soul  alike." 


.»f^f<\    t-..+. 


The  DERATE  ACROSS  The   BAR     147 

Dinny  stood  rooted  to  the  ground,  scratcliing  a 
very  perplexed  head  the  while.  "  What  the — what 
the  divil  d'}  e  mean  ?  "  he  demanded  as  soon  as  he 
could  speak,  exceeding  red  in  the  face. 

The  lecturer  stood  nobly  at  bay,  his  eyes  slightly 
turned  towards  heaven.  "  I'm  not  at  liberty  to  say," 
he  answered,  after  a  long  pause,  snuffing  like  a  giraffe 
of  the  desert  at  the  blossoms  he  had  so  fervently  ap- 
plauded ;  "  suffice  it  to  say,  Mr.  Riley,  suffice  ft  to 
say  it's  not  for  myself.  But  every  man  is  his 
brother's  keeper  in  this  world,  you  know,  I\Ir. 
Riley,"  trying  hard  to  keep  his  eyes  off  the  Doctor. 
"  It's  the  strong  that  have  to  bear  the  burdens  of  the 
weak,  we're  told.  So  we'll  just  stay  under  the  apple 
blossoms,  Mr.  Riley— in  this  sweet  Eden,  I  might 
say,  untainted  by  the  noxious  breath  that — that  puts 
an  enemy  in  your  brains  to  steal  away  your  mouth, 
as  the  poet  says,  Mr.  Riley,"  well  pleased  that  the 
faithful  quotation  had  not  escaped  him. 

Dinny  was  about  to  make  a  reply  worthy  of  the 
occasion  when  he  happened  to  notice  that  Dr.  Leitch 
was  trying  desperately  to  attract  his  attention.  Nora 
said  afterwards  that  the  Doctor  winked  at  her 
father  in  the  excess  of  his  endeavour  to  enlighten 
him,  but  all  who  knew  the  dignified  divine  scorned 
the  very  idea. 

"  I  invited  Mr.  Hilliard  to  spend  the  night  with  me 


\>V 


;!-. 


Ir 


n  1 


:  :m 


148 


THE   HANDICAP 


111 


m 


at  the  Manse,"  Dr.  Lei^ch  began  as  soon  as  he  could 
find  an  opening,  "  but  he  insisted  on  coming  down 
here  to  you.  I  think  he  said  \'uu  botli  came  from 
the  same  place  in  Ireland  and " 

"  Pardon  mc,  sir,"  interrupted  the  lecturer  loftily, 
"  but  you're  mistaken.  1  have  my  faults,  I  know,— 
but  I'm  no  Irishman.  I'm  from  Arbroath,  and  every 
ancestor  of  the  n;  me  is  as  Scotch  as  Robert  Uruce. 
That's  all  right,  Doctor — I  know  you  meant  no  of- 
fense—but no  man  likes  to  ';>'.'  accused  of  a  thing 
he's  not  guilty  of." 

"  Ye  can't  be  anny  too  sure  ye're  Scotch  to  suit 
me,"  retorted  Dinny,  with  mock  contempt ;  "  sure 
they're  welcome  to  ye." 

"  You've  got  Scotch  blood  yourself,  if  I'm  not  mis- 
taken," conceded  the  lecturer  encouragingly. 

"  Divil  a  dhrop,"  Dinny  disavowed. 

"  Indeed  !  You  never  told  me  that  before,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Hilliard. 

"  I  niver  boast— unless  I'm  forced  to  it,"  quoth 
Dinny. 

Dr.  Leitch  covered  his  retreat  towards  the  gate  by 
a  peal  of  laughter.  "  Well,  I'll  leave  you  to  settle 
this  between  yourselves,"  he  said  over  his  shoulder  as 
he  was  about  to  disappear.  "  You'll  have  to  keep 
the  peace,  Nora.  I  have  a  call  or  two  to  make,  so  I 
must  be  going.     I'll  leave  the  orator  in  your  hands," 


;i' 


The   DEBATE  ACROSS  The  BAR 


i49 


smiling  broadly  as  he  made  his  way  out  on  to  the 
street. 

"  You'll  be  sure  to  turn  up  at  the  lecture  to-morrow 
night  ?  "  roared  Mr.  Ililiiard  after  him.  "  1  want  you 
to  move  the  vote  of  thanks."  Dr.  Lcitch's  reply 
was  lost  in  transit. 

The  mini.-,ter  gone,  Dinny  gave  his  full  attention  to 
his  guest.  "  What's  guin'  to  bo  yer  subject  to-mor- 
row  night  .^"  he  a^ked  abruptly. 

"'The  Harroum  and  the  Home,'"  returned  Mr. 
Hilliard,  as  promptly  as  though  he  had  been  asked 
the  time  of  day.  "  I  say,  Dinny — that's  the  name 
suits  you  best — let  us  go  into  the  house,"  moving 
thither  as  he  spoke. 

«'  Not  yet,"  said  Dinny  firmly ;  "  there  isn't  anny 
hurry — we'll  just  stay  here  under  these  unstenchful — 
or  whatever  ye  call  it — these  unstinted  blossoms  that 
the  breath  o'  man  or  beast  niver  smelt;  that  was 
what  ye  said,  wasn't  it?  Tell  us  what  ye'rc  goin' 
to  say  about  the  Barroom  in  the  Home — a  divil  of  a 
funny  like  place  to  have  it,  if  ye  ask  mc,"  Dinny 
ventured,  shaking  his  head  in  some  perplexity. 

"  Come  on  in,  Dinny,"  pleaded  the  lecturer — 
"  let  us  go  in  the  house.  I  want  to  see  the  old  place 
again.  Anyhow,  these  blossoms  make  me  sick — 
they're  too  strong.  And  my  lecture  isn't  the  •  Bar- 
room   in  the  Home ' ;  it's  the  '  Home  in  the  Bar- 


n 

m  it 


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ISO 


THE   HANDICAP 


room'-— versus  it,  I  mean,— something  like  that. 
I've  got  it  in  my  valise,  and  the  Doctur's  going  to 
send  it  down.  Let's  go  on  in,  Dinny— I  want  to 
speak  to  you,"  casting  a  sidelong  glance  at  Nora,  now 
busy  at  a  little  distance  in  relicv  ,ng  the  apple  tree  of 
a  caterpillar's  web. 

"  No,"  Dinny  persisted  resolutely,  "  we  won't  go  in. 
Sure  it's  the  pure  air  we're  after  gettin'  here— can't  ye 
be  aisy,  an'  talk  a  while  ?  " 

Something  like  anger  began  to  glow  far  back  in 
the  somnolent  eyes  of  the  orator.  "  I  don't  care 
whether  you  go  in  or  not,"  he  broke  out  after  a  rather 
sullen  pause.  "  Anyhow,  it  won't  be  long  till  you 
won't  have  any  place  to  go  into— there,  you  can  put 
that  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it,"  throwing  his  chin  de- 
fiantly upward  as  he  turned  and  inspected  Dinny. 

"  What's  that  ye're  sayin'  ?  "  and  there  was  a  sharp, 
excited  strain  in  Dinny's  voice— perhaps  he  had 
heard  something  about  this  before.  "  I  won't  have 
anny  place  to  go  to— is  that  what  ye're  after  puttin"  up 
to  me  ?  "  the  keen  eyes  fixed  inquiringly  on  the  face 
of  the  lecturer. 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  said.  They're  going  to  shut 
you  up  before  long— there  won't  be  any  Buck  Tavern 
in  Glen  Ridge  after  a  while.  Nor  any  Queen's 
Arms  either— they're  going  to  shut  up  that  other 
hole  too.     Both  of  them.     Yes."  and  the  reformer's 


44. 


■f.) 


The  DEBATE  ACROSS  The  BAR 


isi 


arms  began  to  move, '« the  time  is  cominj^  when  our 
fair  country  will  be  no  more  cursed  with  these  cess- 
pools of  iniquity,  when  the  wail  of  the  orphan  hliall 
be  hushed  in  the  land,  when  every  hell-hole  that  nuvv 

pours  forth " 

"Hey?"  cried  Dinny.     "\\Gy}     By  the  powers 

"  Its  blood-btained  stream  of  misery  and  death," 
pursued  the  orator,  "  that  now  drenches  our  streets 
with  its  crimson  tide;  when  all  these  haunts  of 
Satan " 

But  by  this  time  Dinny  was  at  close  quarters  with  the 
eloquent  one.  "  By  the  powers  o'  Maud  Kelly,"  he 
wailed,  in  a  tone  such  as  a  child  uses  when  tears  are 
close,  '^  if  this  ain't  more  than  the  Apostle  Paul  him- 
self would  put  up  wid,"  clutching  one  arm  that  but  a 
moment  ago  had  been  devoted  to  the  high  ends  of  or- 
atory ;  '•  I'll  '  drinch '  ye,  ye  spalpeen,  ye— an'  I'll 
•  haunt '  ye,  ye  sassy  varmint,  ye— comin'  to  a  dacent 
man's  house  an'  insultin'  him,"  steadily  assisting  the 
protesting  rhetorician  towards  the  gate  as  he  relieved 
.  his  burdened  mind ;  "  I'll  lam  ye  to  name  a  dacent 
tavern  in  the  same  breath  wid  a  dirty  hole  like  the 
s^ueen's  Arms  that  a  black-headed,  close-fisted 
Scotchman    runs  on    a    back    street.     I'll   larn   ye, 

ye " 

"  Let  me  finish  my  speech,"  protested  Mr.  Hilliard. 


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THE  H/tNDlC/IP 


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"  This  ,s-this  is  irregular,  to  say  the  least.  Wait  till 
I  .n  throuBh_I  have  some  kind  word,  for  the  nu.. 
Bu.ded  rumscller.  the  last  page  but  one-Ml  show  it 
to  you  when  I  get  my  valise." 

•;  I'll  misguide  ye-an'  I'll  show  ye-widout  anny 
val.se  either."  puffed  Dinny.  for  the  lecturer  was  a 
cheerful  liver  and  had  something  to  show  for  it 

But  just  before  he  reached  the  gate,  .nterference 
came  from  an  unexpected  quarter.     Nora's  hand  was 
on  her  father's  arm.  hghtly  at  first,  then  restraining 
vv.th  all  her  strength  ;  and  the  entreaty  in  the  brown 
eyes  was  too  sincere  to  go  unheeded. 
^^  "Don't,  father."   she   said,    almost   peremptorily; 
you  Shan  t-you  mustn't  send  him  away  like  that. 
He  came  here  because  he  trusted  you-and  besides, 
.t  w,  1    soon  be  dark,  "  glancing  as  she  spoke  towards 
the  already  setting  sun. 

"But  ye  heard  what  the_the  cratur' "-the 
amendment  was  for  Nora's  sake--  what  he  had  the 
owdacity  to  say  to  me."  protested  Dinny.  still  holdmg 
-  guest  by  the  coat  collar.  Nora  put  her  hand  on 
>.s  and  gently  forced  a  release ;  the  guest  straightened 

hm.se  f  and  devoted  h.s  energies  to  the  adjusting  of 
he  afo       i,  ,,„,,  ,„,  ^^^^^  ^^^^^^^^^  ^^^^^^ 

that  had  been  disturbed  by  Dinny's  attachn.ent 

"So  we've  got  to  take  care  of  him.  father,"  Nora 
said  man  undertone;  .Mve'r     the  only  Insh  people 


I 


The  DEBATE  ACROSS  The  BAR 


n? 


round  here,  you  know — and  we've  ^oi  to  teach  them 
hospitality  ;  hke  '  ould  Kilkart)  ,  you  know." 

The  word  acted  Ukc  ina^ic  on  Dinny.  "  Here, 
give  us  yer  hand,"  he  said  imjJuKively,  turning  Mr. 
HiUiard  round  by  the  sliouldeis  to  enable  him  to  do 
so — for  Mr.  Hilliard  was  much  confused.  "  I  know 
you  didn't  mean  annylliiii^^ — an'  ye're  welcome  as  the 
flowers  in  Ma)-.  Come  on  wid  me,  we'll  ^o  into  the 
hou'j.  Hut  it's  up-staiis  we'll  go,  mind  )c — it's  the 
up-stairs  ye  need,  my  friend,  an'  not  the  other  place." 

Mr.  Hilliard  whimpered  a  little,  wept  a  little, 
moved  a  little,  all  the  time  protesting  his  devotion  to 
Dinny  as  a  brother  man,  how  far  soever  their  respect- 
ive callings  might  divide  them,  trying  nobly  at  the 
same  time  to  define  the  particular  class  of  angel  to 
which  his  daughter  undoubtedly  belonged  ;  and  thus, 
with  many  protestations  of  good-will  on  the  one  hand 
and  of  forgiveness  on  the  other — and  with  frequent 
referencs  to  the  (  iolic  sentiments  that  marked  the 
closing  words  o'  ne  oration,  as  should  be  demon- 
strated on  the  arrival  of  the  orator's  valise — the  now 
lachrymose  reformer  was  safely  deposited  in  bed,  in 
the  little  chamber  above  the  bar. 

"  What  have  you  got  the  key  of  Mr.  Hilliard's 
room  for,  father  ? "  Nora  inquired,  glancing  at  his 
hand  as  Dinny  returned  to  the  barroom  from  the 
outer    door.     For    one    drouthy    patron    had    been 


M 


Sit  ; 


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If  t 


THE   HANDICAP 


fif 


waiting;  and  J)inny  had  relieved  his  pain,  even  whik 
he  encouraged  Iiis  departure. 

"  ^'''»'  ^v'cll-lic's  right  over  us  Ivre.  ye  see.     Art 
ye  can't  niver  tcll-he  might  get  ona..y.  if  he  heard 
business  goin'  on  down  here.     I'm  ^vorrit  bad  about 
him,  Nora." 

"  Worried— what  for,  father  ?  " 

"About  to-morrow  night,"  Dinny  answered,  shale- 
ing  h.s  head  seriously;  ••  ifs  to-morrow  n.ght  he's 
gom-  to  jaw  the  nat.ves-on  the  •  Barroom  m  the 
Home,' "  and  Dinny  grinned  significantly,  "  an'  he 
isn't  goin'  to  be  in  anny  fit  shape  for  enlightenin'  the 
brcthren-unless  we  get  him  fixed  up  in  the  mean- 
time,"  as  he  scratched  his  Irish  head  in  sore  mis- 
giving. 

"  Do  you  know  what  he's  going  to  say,  father- 
the  line  of  his  speech.  I  mean  ? "  and  the  girl's  lip, 
could  be  seen  to  quiver  as  she  put  the  question.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  very  intently  on  her  father. 

Dinny  looked  down  at  her  with  infinite  fondness  ; 
something  of  pity,  too,  was  in  his  face.  I  le  kicked  a 
huge  spittoon  into  its  place  towards  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  then  turned  mechanically  and  walked  to 
his  accustomed  stand  b.  ....  ;he  bar.  His  arms 
were  folded  on  it ;  and  he  looked,  without  moving 
an  cyehd,  into  his  daughter's  face.  •<  He'll  give  yer 
father  the-hell  give  him  all  consarned.  Nora ;  me. 


The    :)EP,4TE  ACROSS    The   PAR     r.s 

an'  Joclc  Taylor,  Uiat  keeps  tlic  Oiicen':.  Arms -its 
a  divjl  of  a  fine  name,  ain't  it  now,  for  a  iliity  joint 
like  tljat;  an  ivery  mother's  son  av  us  that  keeps  a 
tavern— that'll  be  his  line,  as  ye  call  it,  Noia.  Hut 
he  trusts  me,  as  ye  pointed  out,  girl— an'  he  letchcd 
a  letter  av  iaterd notion  from  Jake  Cassidy  the  first 
time  he  conic — an'  I  guess  we'll  have  to  look  after 
the  cratur'." 

'  Don't  you  think  he's  riRht.  father?"  the  maiden 
suddenly  demanded,  looking  .p  quickly  ;  then  she 
dropped  her  eyes  to  the  fioor  again,  a,  if  afraid,  or 
ashamed  of  what  she  had  said. 

Dinny  looked  at  her  for  several  n  >ments  in  silence. 
His  face  was  pale.  And  when  he  spoke,  his  eyes 
still  fixed  on  her,  there  was  a  noticeable  t  •mulous- 
ness  about  the  lips.  <•  I  don't  unnerstand  ye,  Nora," 
he  said,  trying  to  control  his  voice.  "  D'ye  mean 
he's  right,  to  be— to  be  abusin'  honest  men,  tryin'  to 
make  an  honest  livin',  Nora  ?  " 

The  girl  came  closer,  and  her  beautiful  face  showed 
the  pain  she  felt.  Her  bosom  was  heaving  as  she 
stood  before  him  ;  hi-,  face  was  ^.aler  Jian  before. 
"  Oh,  father,"  she  bruKe  n  ,t  now — for  she  saw  there 
was  nothing  to  be  conceaieu— •  oh.  father,  you  know 

what  I  mean.     You  know  how  I  hate  il  all,  father 

how  I've  hated  it  all  more  and  more,  ever  since  1  was 
big  enough  to  know  what  it  meant !     Let  us  stop, 


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THE   HAhlDlCAP 


X 


father-father,    dear,   let   us  stop«and  just  live  to- 
gcther-you  and  mc-and  not  do  this,  this  business 
any  more."  ' 

l^inny  was  staring'  at  her  as  though  she  were  a 
S>'-^t ;  for  this  was  ahnost  a  bolt  from  the  blue.  But 
the  earnestness  on  the  face  before  him.  the  pleading 
•n  the  tearful  eyes,  the  quivenng  voice  that  spoke 
the  burn.ng  words,  all  told  him  that  this  was  a  matter 
of  life  and  death,  to  her  at  least. 

"Whisht,  girl."  he  said,  as  sternly  as  it  was  possi- 
ble ,or  him  to  speak  to  her.  the  very  apple  of  his  eye 
as  she  was;  -sure  ye  don't  know  what  ye're 
talkin  about-d'ye  know  its  yer  own  father  yeVe 
abusm.  child?"  his  eyes  now  almost  as  moist 
as  her  own.  his  hand  trembling  as  he  raised  it  in 
protest. 

•' You   mustn-t-you  shaa't-you  can't  say  that, 
father,   she  retorted  passionately ;  •' you  know  you're 
the  only  one  in  the  world  I  love.     You're  all  I've 
got.     the  words  coming  out  in  broken  fragments- 
"  ""^^  ^''"  ^^^  y^^'^  h-v-e  too.     And  it's  because  you're 
so  good,"  she  went  on  pleadingly,  drawing  closer  to 
1""' ;  "  you're  far  too  good  for  this-look  at  your  kind- 
ness to  that  poor  man  up-stairs.  there  isn't  one  in  ten 
thousand  would   do   what  you're  doing-and  that's 
why  I  want  j-ou  to  give  it  up.  to  give  it  all  up.  father. 
Wont  you.  for  my  sake-because  I  love  you  so" 


ite-iti -.» 


■■iP'r.'iisssi'iF^^ 


:^sims 


'The  DEBATE  ACROSS  The  BAR  ,37 
the  beautiful  eyes  all  suflTused  as  they  looked  appeal- 
ingly  into  the  troubled  face  opposite  her  own. 

Dinny  tried  a  thrust  of  almost  cruel  sternness. 
"  VeVe  gettin'  ashamed  av  yer  old  dad,"  he  said,  a 
shade  of  bitterness  on  his  face ;  "  ,ts  them  p.o'us 
friends  o'  yours  that's  doin'  it— fellows  like  that  there 
young  Irwin  Menzies.  Ye  don't  fancy,  dye,  that  I 
don't  know  he's  sweet  on  ye-he's  been  talkin'  to 
ye,  hasn't  he,  girl,  an'  puttin'  high-falutin'  notions  in 
yer  head?  But  I  can  tell  him  something  about 
himself,"  Dinny  went  on,  recklev;  now;  "I  can 
tell  him  what  kind  of  a  cradle  he  was   rocked  in.  if 

he  wants  to  know.     An'  it  won't " 

But  he  got  no  further.     "  Stop  it,"  Nora  cried  pas- 
sionately, and  the  glasses  on  the  shelf,  frail  maiden 
though  she  was,  rattled  in  their  places  as  the  girl 
stamped  her  foot  on  the  unsteady  floor  ;  right  up  to 
the    bar   she   walked,  her   eye.   ablaze  with   a    fire 
Dinny  had    never   seen   before,  her   face   as   white 
as  death,  all  tears  vanished  now,  her  blanched  lips 
parted   as  the  panting  breath  came  through  them. 
"  I  won't-I  won't  hear  to  it,"  she  cried,  the  voice 
shaking  so  she  could   hardly  speak.     <-  I  don't  care 
anything    for   Irwin    Menzies -and    he   doesn't   for 
me— I  don't  know   him—I  don't  like  him— I  hate 
him,  desp'.e  him— and  I    won't  ever  speak  to  him 
again.     xXever,  never,"  she   protested.  Jie  banished 


'  '  1 

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THE   HANDICAP 


tears  wellinjT   back   in  overflowing  drops,  •'  but  it's 

a  shame — it's  the  only  mean  thing  you  ever  did 

to    sneer   at   him   for,   for— something   he   couldn't 
help.      And    I   won't   ever   speak   to   him   again— 
never,  never—but,  oh,  father,  what   made  you  ?_ 
oh,  how  could  you,  father?"  and  now  the   beautiful 
head  was  bended  low,  clasped  in  the  white  shapely 
hands  that  were  resting  on  the  bar.     Strange  spec- 
tacle  it  was  ;  the    landlord,  shaking   like   a   leaf  at 
the  sudden  stream  of  passion— which  reminded  him 
of  her  mother— towering  above  the  stooping  form ; 
which  form,  in  all  the  beauty  and  charm  of  opening 
womanhood,   was    bowed    half-way  over   the   rude 
counter  of    a   country  tavern  where   coarse  yokels 
were  wont  to  lean  as  they  drank  their  deep  pota- 
tions ;  and,  background  for  all,  the  wooden  shelves 
from  which  bottles  and  tumblers  of  various  shapes 
and  sizes  looked  down  on  this  strange  scene  from 
the  great  drama  of  human  life. 

Dinny  reached  out  one  hand  in  a  timid,  hesitat- 
ing way  towards  the  beautiful  head  that  was  lying 
now  on  the  enfolded  arms.  He  felt  a  new  sort  of 
fear,  something  he  had  never  known  before,  as  if  a 
gulf  had  suddenly  begun  to  yawn  between  him  and 
his  idol ;  he  touched'  some  outlying  strands  of  the 
flowing  hair,  carefully,  as  though  he  were  taking 
a    hberty   beyond  his    right— and   he   noticed   how 


^*^l?^^S!r^^ 


The  DJBA  IE  ACROSS,    7  h  c  B  A  R     is9 

coarse  and  rough  was  his  extended  hand.  Dut  the 
touch  seemed  to  inflame  him;  greedily  liis  fingers 
gathered  the  stray  threads,  eagerly  following  up 
till  soon  both  hands  were  holding  the  imresisting 
head.  Then  he  bowed  beside  her,  his  cheek  pressed 
close  against  her  own,  his  hands  still  patting  and 
fondling  wherever  they  touched  the  dear  face  or 
head. 

"  Sure  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  ye,  Mavourneen," 
he  murmured,  dwelling  on  the  word  as  only  Irish 
lips  know  how ;  "  an'  I  haven't  got  annything  agin' 
that  there  Menzies  boy.  But  it  hurted,  it  hurted 
me,  Nora,  to  think  ye'd  talk  agin'  yer  father's  busi- 
ness. It's  all  we've  got  to  live  on,  Nora — an'  we've 
got  to  live,  my  darlint.  But  we've  always  tried  to 
live  an'  let  hve  at  it,  haven't  we,  Nora,  an' " 

Suddenly  Dinny  stopped,  then  moved  quickly 
from  behind  the  counter  towards  the  door.  He  was 
just  in  time  to  slam  it  in  the  face  of  two  very  moist 
looking  swains  who  were  pressing  eagerly  towards 
the  bar,  their  mouths  set  in  anticipation.  A  wail 
of  protest  came  from  the  outer  porch  as  the  door 
slammed  shut ;  this  was  "  Paradise  Lost "  to  them. 
"The  divil  take  yez,"  muttered  Dinny  under  his 
breath.  Then,  the  protest  deepening :  "  Ye  can't 
get  annything  now,"  he  hissec'  through  the  keyhole. 
"  I'm  busy  wid — wid  an  inspector,"  indulging  a  shame- 


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THE   HANDICAP 


less  grin  in  the  direction  of  the  unseen  applicants  ; 
"  ye'll  liave  to  go  to  The  Queen's  Arms— off  ivid  ye 
now.' wj.jrewith  he  started  back,  his  pace  quick- 
enitr  -^'  he  saw  the  girl  still  bending  where  he  had 
le''  lu.r.  Round  to  the  back  of  the  bar  he  went 
ar  ■-  "  ;  again  he  gathered  the  drooping  head  and 
sho'ilvers   in   his   arms. 

"Yeve  been  so  good,  1  >r  ,"  he  whispered,  "  so 
g.;c.d~-an'  ye've  worked  so  .rd,  an'  kep'  the  place 
so  neat  and  tidy.  An'  there  mustn't  annything  come 
between  us  now,"  he  murmured  pleadingly;  "an' 
there  won't   be,  will  there,  my  darlint?" 

She  raised  her  face,  tear-stained  but  lovely.  The 
smile  that  gathered  on  it  was  as  sad  as  sweet. 
"  This  is  all  that's  between  us,  father,"  she  said— 
•'just  what's  between  us  now." 

"What's  that?"  inquired  Dinny  sharply,  disap- 
pointedly; "what's  between  us  now?— there  isn't 
annything  between  us,  girl." 

'•  Just  this,"  said  Nora,  smiling  in  a  pitiful  sort  of 
way  and  looking  into  her  father's  eyes.  As  she 
spoke  she  tapped  lightly  on  the  bar  with  the  long 
tapering  fingers;  "this,  father— //^/.y  is  what's  be- 
tween us.  Oh,  father,"  and  the  fingers  beat  a 
little  tattoo  on  the  resounding  board,  "  you  know, 
and  I  know,  it  isn't  right.  You  know  that  some- 
times  poor   men— when  you  can't   tell— put   down 


^■'t^'fti. 


^^rs  :i^^ae^js^^^-mbi 


The  DEBA7E  ACROSS  The  BAR    i6i 

their  money  here,"  the  fingers  tapping  still,  "  that 
ought  to  buy  bread  and  shoes  for  their  children — 
you  know  that's  bound  to  happen,  father,  even  if 
you  vvculdn't  take  it  if  you  knew.  And  it's  because 
you're  loo  good — you're  too  good  and  noble  fur 
that  sort  of  thing.  And  I'd  sooner,"  the  girl 
straightening  herself  to  her  full  length,  "  I'd  sooner 
slave,  or  beg — or  steal — yes,  I'd  sooner  steal,  from 
people  that  have  plenty,  than  feel  that  the  bread  I 
eat  may  be  taken  from  hungry  children's  mouths. 
Oh,  father,  let  us  stop  ;  let  us  leave  it  all,  and  go 
away  somewhere  together — you  and  I — and  begin 
all  over  again." 

Dinny  held  his  daughter  out  from  him,  his  arms 
outstretched  across  the  bar.  "  Nora,"  he  began,  and 
his  face  was  very  grave,  "  there's  somcthin'  I'm  goin' 
to  ask  ye.  Don't  ye  think  my  father — d'ye  think 
he's  in  heaven  ?  Answer  me,  girl — tell  me  what  ye 
think." 

Nora's  face  showed  the  surprise  she  felt.  "  Why ! " 
she  began,  her  lips  slightly  parted  as  she  gazed  at 
him,  "  of  course  he  is — of  course  grandfather's  there. 
He  was  good." 

"  An'  he  kep'  a  tavern— he  kep' '  The  Black  Bull ' 
in  Kilkarty,"  Dinny  returned  triumphantly  ;  "  an'  he 

niver  put  a  dhrop  o'  watter What  the  divil's 

that  ? — d'ye  mind  that,  now  ?     Did  ye  ever  hear  a 


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162 


THE   HANDlCAl' 


noise  like  that  in  yer  born  days  ?  "  he  inquired,  his 
head  uplifted  towards  tlic  source  of  the  commotion. 
"  It's  Hiiiiard,"  he  added,  though  quite  unnecessarily, 
for  that  ^'cntlcman's  voice  was  easy  of  identification. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  lie  wants  ?  "  said  Nora, 
steppinj^  to  the  door  and  glancin^r  up  the  stairs. 

"  Haven't  anny  idea  in  the  world,"  Dmny  replied, 
winking  violently  into  space ;  "  but  it  ain't  butter- 
milk, I'll  tell  ye  that.  Poor  divil,  I'll  just  give  him  a 
wee  dhrop,  to  kind  o'  quinch  him  like."  turning  as  he 
spoke  and  taking  down  a  decanter  from  the  shelf; 
"sure  it's  hydryphoby  he'll  be  after  takin',  if  I 
don't." 

"  Don't,  father,  don't,"  Nora  protested ;  "  I'd  let 
him  have  his  « hydryphoby '—you  mustn't,  father. 
It's  wrong— and  besides,  I  thought  you  were  going 
to  fix  him  up  for  his  lecture  to-morrow  night  ?  " 

"  So  I  am,"  afiRrmed  Dinny,  beginning  to  pour  as 
he  spoke.     "  This  is  just  to  save  the  cratur's  life." 

Whereat  Nora  came  to  close  quarters  with  her 
father.  "I  won't  have  it,"  she  said  with  authority ; 
"  it  isn't  right." 

But  Dinny  struggled  towards  the  door.  «•  Nora," 
he  said,  as  he  turned  and  confronted  her.  "was  ye 
ever  parched  up  inside  o'  ye— like  a  lime-kiln— for  a 
dhrop  o'  this  ?  " 

For  answer  Nora's  nimble   fingers   snatched   the 


lr_ 


The  DEBATE  ACROSS  J 


ii-:   BAR     I'  5 


glass  from  her  father's  hand ;  Uke  a  flasl,  slic  readied 
for  a  pitcher  standing  on  the  bar  and  filled  the  glass 
half  full  of  the  cold  spring  water  it  contained. 

"  Och,  Nora,"  Dinny  cried  in  loud  dismay,  "  sure 
this'll  break  his  heart— d'ye  expect  me  to  offer  tiie 
likes  o"  this  to  a  man  that's  pcrishin',"  sniffing  con- 
tempruously  at  the  unequal  mixture. 

"  He'll  never  know  the  difference, "  Nora  flung 
back;  "off  with  you,  now,"  gently  pushing  her 
father  towards  the  door.  "  Quick— his  hydrophobia's 
getting  worse,"  as  sundry  sounds  of  objurgation  and 
appeal  floated  from  above. 

"  Och,  begorra,"  Dinny  wailed,  as  he  went  up  the 
narrow  stairs,  «  but  it's  hard  to  keep  an  hone.t  bar 
wid  womenfolks  around  ye.  Sure,  my  father  niver 
done  the  hkes  o'  this  till  his  dyin"  day— I'm  comin', 
Mr.  Hilliard,"  he  roared  above  the  din,  "  an'  I'm 
fetchin'  ye  somethin'  ye  haven't  tasted  the  likes  av  in 
forty  year." 


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"^"^ 


A    FACE   IN   MEMORY'S   HALL 

THE  next  morning  found  the  lecturer  peni. 
tent  and  poetical.     Above  all  things  else,  on 
this  particular  morning,  his  mind  turned  to 
the  serenity  and  sweet  repose  of  rural  life.     Nothing 
would  do  but  that  he  should  spend  the  day  in  the 
country.     •'  The  sweet  verdant  fields,  the  simple  life, 
the  homely  fare,"'  w>  uld  make  i  new  man  of  him 
again,  vowed   he.     To   which   proposal  Dinny  gave 
full  coiisent,  hopeful  that  this  might  make  all  secure 
against  the  evening's  performance ;  wherefore,  after 
a  little   pressure  on  his  part,  and  not  a  little  of  shy 
reluctance  on  the  part  of  Nora,  it  was  decided  that 
she  should  convoy  the  lecturer  to  the  farmhouse  she 
and  her  father  knew  the  best  and  visited  the  oftenest. 
Which,  as   was  natural  enough  after  the  associations 
of    earlier    years,   enriched    by    long    acquaintance 
since,  was  the  cheery  homestead  of  Arthur  Ainslie. 
There,    they    knew,    a    ready    welco.ne    was    ever 
waiting. 

So  forth  they  set  on  foot,  Nora  and  the  lecturer, 
the  latter  in  that  half  incoherent  frame  of  mind  that 

164 


;f^. 


A    FACE   in    MEMORY'S   HALL     165 

so  often  follows  such  experiences  as  Mr.  Milliard  lud 
enjoyed  the  day  before. 

"  That's  the  ho.se."  Nora  said  at  length,  pointing 
to  the  substantial  and  rather  imposing  structure  that 
could  be  seen  in  the  distance  through  the  trees,  llic 
old  log  cabin  had  gone  the  way  of  so  mj^ny  of  the 
first  homes  of  the  pioneers-but  th.s  has  been  already 
told.  ' 

Her  companion  glanced  at  it.     '<  Scotch,"  he  said, 
laconically. 

"What  do  you  mean?  "asked  Nora,  at  a  Ics.  to 
know. 

••  The  inmates  of  that  house  are  Scotch,  that's  what 
I  mean."  elaborated  Mr.  iliHiard.  castmg  another 
careless  glance  towards  the  place  in  question. 

"  How  can  you  tell  that  ?  "  Nora  inquired  curiously. 
"  By  the  wood-pile,"  replied  the  other,  as  confi- 
dently as   if  he  were   demonstrating   a   problem   in 
mathematics ;  '•  wood-pile  right  up  against  the  door 
you    see.     That's    always    a    sign    they're    Scotch. 
That's  done  to  save  time-to  save  paying  sc.  v.mts 
for    walking.     Sure    sign.     Wonderful   peopie.   the 
Scol.h-I'm    Scotch    mjself,"    he  added  ^K>destI^• 
hurrymg  as  he  spoke,  fo.  he  knew  it  was  about  tim'e' 
for  "  the  humble  fare  "       it  had  been  the  subject  of 
his  eulogy  before  he  startej. 

"Who's    that  there— that  young  fellou,  plough- 


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THE   HANDICAP 


ing?"  was   Mr.    Hilliard's   sudden   inquiry  as   they 
were  passing  a  field  between  the  road  and  the  house 
"fine  figure  of  a  youth,  who  ever  he  is."  he  added! 
surveying  the  goodly  proportions  of  the  form  behind 
the  plough. 

"  Oh,"  said  Nora,  with  well  arranged  surpri.se— 
"  there  ts  somebody  there,  isn't  there  ?  I  know  him 
too.  1  think."  slie  went  on  naively,  conscious  of  a 
telltale  check;  "that's  Mr.  Men/.ies-he  lives  on 
this  farm,  with  his  uncle.  He  does  most  of  the  work 
now— I  think,"  she  added  carefully. 

The  toiler  himself  was  not  oblivious  to  his  sur- 
roundings;   he  was    already   moving    towards   the 
fence,  leaving  his  plough  in  the  furrow.     The  face 
of  the  youth,  bronzed  as  it  was  by  the  sun.  was  of  a 
decidedly  serious  cast,  but  a  glow  of  gladness  could 
be  seen  upon  it  as  he  hurried  towards  the  strangers. 
His  form  was  tall  and  powerful,  straight  as  an  arrow, 
significant  in  every  line  of  the  strength  and  vigour 
that  purity  of  life  and  plainness  of  living  seldom  fail 
to  bestow. 

"  Good-morning,  Nora,"  he  said  in  greeting,  lift- 
ing his  broad-brimmed  straw  hat;  "good-morning, 
sir,"  turning  to  the  stranger.  "  Are  you  coming  in! 
Nora?" 

Mr.  Billiard  was  studying  the  youth  before  him. 
It  was  evident  that  the  impression  was  favourable. 


'V-T,. 


A    FACE   in    MEMORY^   HALL     167 

Nor  was  this  to  be  wondered  at,  for  there  was  a  can- 
dour and  honesty  about  the  young  man's  lace,  a 
strength  of  sclf-rehance  looking  out  from  the  large 
earnest  eyes,  and  a  comeliness  of  both  form  and  fea- 
ture that  might  well  provoke  confidence  and  admira- 
tion. 

"  That's  what  we  were  plann'ng— there's  no  place 
else  to  go,  by  this  road,  is  there  >  "  smiling  as  she 
glanced  along  the  narrow  lane  leading  to  the  house. 
"  This  is  Mr.  Milliard,  Mr.  Menzies.  He's  a  friend 
of  father's — and  he  wanted  to  spend  the  day  in  the 
country ;  he  hasn't— hasn't  been  very  well,"  colour- 
ing in  some  embarrassment  as  she  spoke— "  and 
father  thought  you'd  be  glad  to  see  us." 

"  Your  father  was  right."  the  young  man  replied 
quietly  as  he  shook  hands  with  the  new  acquaint- 
ance. "  Uncle  will  be  as  pleased  as  I  am— and  you 
know  how  much  that  is,"  looking  out  earnestly  from 
beneath  the  broad  hat  that  shaded  his  cjes. 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  the  girl ;  "  father  made  me 
come,  Mr.  Menzies— I  ought  to  be  at  home."  she 
added  nervously,  as  if  her  speech  pleased  her  ill. 

"  The  tyrant!"  said  the  other,  without  looking  up. 
"  Was  It  he  that  made  yo-i  call  me  Mr.  Menzies. 
too?— come  on,  let  us  go  to  the  house.  I  guess  I'd 
better  unhitch  the  horses  and  start  them  home," 
glancing  towards  the  very  stationary  steeds. 


13 


•  f 


.Ids 

m 

m 


m 


if- 


I'M 


168 


J,  i 
1  I 


i   ! 


7HE  HANDICAP 


"Why,"  the  girl  inquiied,  "aren't  you  going  to 
finish  your  work  ?  You  mustn't  let  us  interrupt  you, 
you  know." 

Ho  made  no  response,  but  started,  whistling 
towards  the  team.  Released,  they  made  their  way 
at  a  rapid  walk  across  the  field  -• .  the  direction  of  the 
barn. 

"There's  uncle."  Irwin  exclaimed,  pointing 
towards  the  house  as  he  rej,.incd  the  visitors 
".-»nd  I  think  he's  got  his  eye  on  us_hcs  looking' 
th.s  way.  Now  he's  makiuK  for  the  house-I  guess 
he's  gone  in  to  tell  mother.  We  country  people  arc 
easily  agitated,  Mr.  lliHiard,"  turning  towards  him 
and  smiling  as  he  spoke;  '•  company  is  quite  an 
event  in  our  humdrum  lives." 

"  Man  is  a  sociable  animal."  remarked  the  lecturer 
sagely.  •<  Does  your  father  live  here  too,  Mr.  Men- 
zies?"  he  suddenly  inquired,  nodding  towards  the 
house  in  the  distance. 

"  No,"  said  the  other.  He  was  looking  far  be- 
yond the  house,  beyond  the  fields— far,  far. 

"  Oh,"  Nora  broke  in  at  race-horse  speed,  "  are 
you  gomg  to  the  lecture  to-night,  Irwin?  Mr.  Hil- 
hards  going  to  lecture,  you  know,"  her  voice  agi- 
tated beyond  all  apparent  necessity  for  so  common- 
place  a  question. 

Irwin  smiled.     "  I  think  I'll  send  uncle,"  he  said; 


;^^^ 


^m^'mi 


A    FACE   $n    MEMORY'S   H  A  1. 1,     kxj 

"  these  old  Scotcli  elders  need  tliat  sort  of  thing  more 
than  us  youn^'er  folks." 

"  Your  uncle's  an  elder  ? "  gravely  broke  in  the 
lecturer.     Irwin  nodded. 

"And  Scotch?" 

"  Scotch  as  heather,"  said  his  nephew. 

"  Worst  kind,"  murmured  the  lecturer,  shaking  his 
head  ;  "  terrible  combination,  sir— there's  no  kind 
gives  me  as  much  trouble  in  my  work — terrible,  the 
hold  it  gets  on  them.  Hut  I  hope  you'll  send  him  in, 
sir ;  we've  gut  to  do  our  part,  you  know — then  our 
skirts  are  clear.  Here  lie  is — uiiy,  he's  coming  to 
meet  us,"  for  just  at  this  juncture  the  door  opened 
again  and  Arthur  Aiiislic  emerged,  hurrying  towards 
the  approaching  guests. 

The  introductory  greetings  over— gravely  sincere 
on  the  part  of  the  elder,  effusively  emotional  on  the 
part  of  the  other — the  company  made  their  way  to- 
gether to  the  house,  savoury  odours  stealing  forth  to 
meet  them,  the  lecturers  pace  perceptibly  quicken- 
ing thereat. 

"  This  is  my  mother,"  Irwin  said,  as  the  door 
closed  behind  them.  •'  Mother,  this  is  Mr.  Hilliard, 
a  friend  of  Mr.  Riley's — and  he's  come  out  to  spend 
the  day  in  the  country." 

The  woman  advanced  to  meet  him,  her  hand  ex- 
tended.    Very  lovely  was  the  sweet  face,  nxsy  from 


ill 


'1 

v\ 

\ 

F 

I 

'i 

■   i 

i 

i     I 

i 
\ 

t 

1 

I 

170 


THE   HANDICAP 


If 


V  • 


li 


her  exertions  in  the  preparing  of.the  dinner  and 
irom  the  heat  of  the  fire;  the  snow-white  apron  that 
she  wore  added  to  the  comehncss  of  her  appearance 
—and  tht  already  quickly  whitening  hair  lent  to  tlie 
soft  skin  and  mantled  cheeks  a  look  of  peach-like 
beauty. 

Her  welcome  to  the  stranger  was  cordial,  if  quiet 
and  restrained.     But  after  the  first  words  of  greeting 
were  over,  her  eyes  turned  again  and  again  in  furtive 
glances  to  his  face.     Something  about  it  seemed  to 
puzzle  her.     She  could  not  but  feel  that  she  had  seen 
that  face  before,  somewhere  in  the  long  ago.     There 
was,  however,  little  time  to  spare  from  the  task  that 
engrossed    her.   as    the   dinner   was  waiting   to  be 
served.     Which    accomplished,    she    seemed    ratlier 
loath    than    otherwise    to   engage   in    conversation 
with  the  new  acquaintance  as  they  sat  together  at 
the  table. 

Nor  was  there  much  need  that  she  should  talk ; 
for  the  stranger  and  her  uncle  attended  to  all  that,' 
engrossed  as  tliey  were  in  a  conversation  that  soon 
developed  into  a  vigorous  debate. 

"  I  canna-  agree  wi'  ye  there."  Arthur  Ainslie  was 
saying-.,  tak'  anither  piece  o'  the  steak.  Mr.  Milliard  • 
thae  ither  three  bits  ye  had  was  tough.  I'm  dootin'  " 
as  he  glanced  at  the  lecturer's  again  empty  plate. 
"  I  canna-  agree  wi'  ye  there.     I  wadna'  gang  sae  far 


r^r'SPisv-r^ai 


A    FACE   in    MEMORY'S    HALL 


•  71 


. 


as  that,  to  say  that  naebody  can  be  a  Christian  if  they 
tak'  a  drappie.  Oh,  no,  I  think  yc're  urang,  Mr. 
Hilhard," 

The  other  shook  his  head  sadly.  "  It  doesn't  ^ive 
me  any  pleasure  to  say  it,  Mr.  Ainslie,"  he  remarked 
sorrowfully,  "  but  I  think  I've  got  the  .Scripture  for  it. 
•  If  meat  make  my  brother  to  offend,'  you  know,  .Mr. 
Ainslie," 

"  Will  ye  ha'e  a  piece  mair  o'  the  steak  ?  "  again 
inquired  his  host,  with  gravity  undisturbed. 

"  Thank  you,  sir ;  yes,  I  believe  I  will— ar.d  I  think 
you'll  come,  in  time,  to  see  the  thing  in  the  same  light 
I  do,  Mr.  Ainslie.  A  man  can't  be  both  right  and 
wrong,  you  know,  Mr.  Ainslie." 

The  Scotchman  paid  no  attention  to  this.  His 
mind  was  on  the  original  point  of  debate.  '<  My 
faither,"  he  went  on  earnestly, «  he  took  his  toddy  the 
longest  day  he  lived— an'  he  went  to  his  rest  in 
peace,"  was  added  reverently.  "  An'  I'm  no'  worthy 
to  loose  his  shoe's  lathet."  he  affirmed  solemnly; 
"  nor  you  yirsel'— ye'rc  no'  worthy  either,  sir."  with 
rising  voice  and  heightening  colour,  as  he  turned  in 
his  chair  and  looked  fixedly  at  his  guest. 

The  lecturer  glanced,  startled,  at  his  host.  Evi- 
dently the  argument  had  gone  far  enough.  "  Was 
your  father— was  he  a  Scotchman  ?  "  he  asked,  glad 
to  give  a  turn  to  the  conversation. 


\u 


]  I 


I 


111 


11 


■    ^ 


1-2 


THE   H/tNDlCAP 

"Aye— that    he    was."   returned   Arthur  Ainslic 
emphatically. 

"  VVhat  part  of  Scotland  ?  "  pursued  the  other,  for 
want  of  something  else  to  say. 

"  He  was  frae  Hawick-an'  he  was  an  elder  i'  the 

parish  kirk."  his  host  answered  with  noticeable  pride 

"Hawick!"  echoed  Mr.  Hilliard.  mterested  now 

"Why.  I  know  Ilawick-Ivc  been  often  there      It 

seemed  to  me  when  I  first  came  in_whcn  I  first  met 

your,  your  niece "     Then  he  stopped  and  turned 

abruptly  to  the  woman  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

"  Are  you  from  Hawick  too.  madam  ?  "  he  asked 
h.s  knife  and  fork  laid,  and  for  the  first  thne  since  l,e' 
began,  upon  his  plate. 

Margaret  Menzies  started  as  he  put  the  question  to 
her.  her  face  paling  to  whiteness.  Almost  like  some 
hunted  thing  at  bay.  she  f^xed  her  eyes  on  his.  half 
appealingly.  half  defiantly.  A  moment  later  her  self- 
control  asserted  itself  again,  the  old  poise  of  dignity 
and  sweetness  restored  to  lier. 

"  Ves."  she  said  ;  '•  yes.  I'm  from  Hawick  too." 
Her  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  his.  And  there  they 
rested  a  moment.the  man's  face  giving  evidence  of  all 
he  felt,  all  that  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  be 
sa.d-and  only  by  an  effort  did  he  restrain  the  ques- 
tion, or  the  statement,  that  leaped  to  his  lips.  For 
hah  an  instant  his  gaze  flew  towards  Irwin,  quickly 


.-aKSSKwCWW 


W    F/ICE   in    MEMORY'S   HALL 


ft 


«73 


Margaret 


Jinposed  as 


recalled  and  fixed 

ever,  a  deep  flush  _..,,._...^  ._  ^,.._.  ,,  „,.,  ,„^^,^^ 
she  met  his  look  with  infinite  repose  and  dignity. 
Yet  both  knew  that  neither  was  deceived,  that  both 
were  aware  of  all. 

Mr.  Ililiiard,  with  a  self-control  hardly  to  be  ex- 
pected Ironi  him,  deftly  turned  the  conversation  by 
way  of  some  commonplace  inquiry  of  his  host.  It 
concerned  Iii>  house,  or  its  situation. 

"Aye."  said  Arthur  Ainslie,  content  to  be  thus 
a^'ain  en-a-cd.  •«  it's  a  bonnie  spot  for  a  hoose— that's 
why  I  JMult  it  richt  where  the  auld  yin  u>cd  to  stand. 
J5ut  yc  haena'  seen  the  best  o'  't.  ^'c'll  ha'c  to  see 
the  view  l.ac  the  toi)_frae  the  up-stairs  window,  ye 
ken." 

"That's  e.xactlywhat  I'd  like  tc  do."  replied  the 
affable  Mr.  Hilhanl ;  "if  there',  one  thinj,'  I  hke 
more  than  another,  ,t's  a  view— let  us  ^o  and  sec  it 
now." 

M>re  tlian  v.Iling.  his  host  rose  from  the  table 
and  bade  hmi  follow  where  he  led.  No  sooner  had 
the  door  closed  behind  them  than  Nora,  her  woman's 
intuition  taking:  in  every  feature  of  the  situation,  ex- 
cused herself  on  some  slicjht  pretext  and  went  r.ut  on 
to  the  flower- covered  porch  that  overlooked  the 
meadow  far  beyond. 

Iruin    Menzies   did   not  follow  her.     Instead,   he 


il.  il 


|4 


ji; 


I! 


Pi 


■J  '\ 


THE   H/tNDICAP 

ro-,c   after  a   brief  silence   and   came    over   to    his 
mother's  chair.     It  was  beautiful  to  see  :  to  any  one, 
at  least,  who   knew  all  tlie  emotion  that  filled  these 
two  devoted  hearts.     Indeed,  earth  presents  few  spec- 
tacles more  moving  than  this— the  deep  and  luving 
loyalty  of  a  strong  and  manly  life  towards  her  who 
gave  it  birth,  handicapped  though  it  be  by  the  stain 
of  dishonour,  doomed— and  through   no   fault  of  its 
own— to  bear  unto  the  end  the  heaviest  part  of  the 
legacy   of  shame.     When   this,  capable  as  it  is  of 
breeding  a  resentment  nut  altogether  unreasonable  or 
unjust,  and   of  furnishing  a  root  of  bitterness  that 
found  its  unhappy  soil  before  the  life  thus  darkened 
had  its  being— when  it  turns,  instead,  to  passionate 
tenderness,  to  unwavering  sjmpathy  and  love,  then  the 
sorest  of  all  human  wounds  has  found  a  healing  be- 
yond the  power  of  human  contempt  or  cruelty  to 
imjiair. 

And  such  had  come  to  Margaret  Menzies.  Dark- 
ened thougn  her  life  had  been;  doomed  though  it 
was  to  a  pe-pctual  pall  that  haunted  her  every  hour 
and  overhunc  her  at  every  step  of  life,  it  was  yet  hers 
to  glory  i-j  the  lich  recompense  of  her  son's  strong 
and  unfaltering  love.  And  never  had  she  felt  it 
more  tluui  in  this  hour,  an  hour  whose  humiliation 
and  ;)ain  were  evidently  as  much  his  as  they  were 
hei"  own. 


n-^: 


A    FACE   in   MEMORY'S   HALL     17s 

He  stood  above  her,  one  hand  resting  gently  on 
her  liead.     "  Does  he  know,  mother  ?  "  was  all  he  said. 

The  head  bowed  lower.  "  Yes,  my  son ;  yes,  he 
knows." 

"  You've  seen  him  before  ?  "  he  added,  his  voice 
shaking  and  hoarse. 

"  Yes,  he  was  at  Hawick— I  think  he  taught  a 
country  school.  He  was  there,  wiieii — when  you  were 
born,"  she  faltered;  "  he  was  staying  with  a  distant 
relative — where  I  often  was — and  1  saw  him  several 
times,"  the  voice  breaking,  a  nameless  emotion  surg- 
ing through  it.  "  Oh,  my  son,"  she  went  on,  the 
head  going  down  to  the  table  now,  ••  it  breaks  my 
heart — not  for  myself  at  all— but  for  you,  for  you, 
my  son,  that  you  have  to  suffer  for  your  mother's 
shame,  you  who  have " 

But  he  stopped  her.  Imperiously,  with  the  strong 
authority  of  love,  he  hushed  her  words,  taking  her  in 
lus  arms  and  caressing  her  to  silence.  "  No  motiier 
was  ever  more  to  a  son  than  you've  been  to  me,"  he 
murmured  in  her  ear,  "  and  no  son  ever  loved  a 
mother  more — or  honoured  her  more,"  were  the  last 
words  he  whispered,  when  suddenly  the  sound  ot  an 
opening  door  checked  his  speech,  Nora  reappearing 
with  some  cheery  greeting,  a  bunch  of  fragrant 
flowers  in  her  hand.  "  They're  out,"  she  cried  gaily, 
"  nearly  all  the  spring  flowers  are  blooming  now — 


ikil 


^4 


M 


;r 


If 


I 


■ 

m 

m 

m 

■ 

17" 


THE   HANDICAP 


i  *  ' 


I  m  fjomff  out  to  gather  some,  while  Mr.  Ainslie  is 
show.nt;  o,.r  friend  the  view/'  witJi  a  merry  tUt  of  her 
chm  towards  the  room  aloft,  whence  issued  the 
sounds  of  a  very  animated  conversation. 

"  Where  to.  Nora  ?  "  asked  Margaret  Mcn.ies.  sur- 
veying w.th  undisguised  admiration  the  lithe  and 
graceful  form;  she  was  swing.ng  her  bonnet  to  and 
»ro.  one  hand  already  on  the  doer. 

"  Oh.  any  pla.e  at  all.  Miss  Men.ies  ;  wherever  the 
sp.rit_and  the  flowers^lead   me.     Do  lend  nu-  an 
apron.  w,il  you?     There's  nothing  hke  an  apron' for 
gathenng  Howers.     I  think  I'll  go  down  through  the 
sugar  bu.sh_that   was   always  a  favourite  place  for 
them,      fake  good  care  of  the  lecturer.-  she  turned 
at  the  steps  to  direct ;   .«  father  and  I  are  very  anxious 
about  our  star-and  I  won't  be  long."  as  she  tripped 
away,  leaving  everything  a  little  darker  for  her  de- 
part  u  re. 

"  She's  a  sweet  somebod).'  Margaret  said  musingly 
a-s  she  followed  the  fast  fleeing  figure  with  her  eyes ; 
••  she  s  as  girlish,  and  as  innocent,  as  the  first  day  I 
savv  her  in  the  sleigh-the  very-  day  we  can,e  tc  the 
Glen." 

Irvvin  ventured  no  opinion  on  this  particular  point. 
;'  I  d  hke  to  know."  was  his  answer.  '<  why  she's  fool- 
>"^;  with  that  old  fakir  up-stai,^  there,     l-'unny  thing 
.sn  t  .t-her  father   and   Nora  looking  after  a  man 


A  FACE  tn  MEMORY'S  HALL  177 
that's  agitating  to  put  them  out  of  business,  and  try- 
ing to  get  him  in  good  sha-»-  to  lecture  to-;iij;ht— to 
talk  against  themselves,  that's  the  mysterious  part  of 
it." 

"  Talk  against  them  ?  "  queried  Margaret ;  "  how, 
Irwin  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  there's  a  move  on  foot — you  must  have 
heard  of  it— to  shut  up  the  taverns  in  Glcu  Rid^re 
And  that  I  lilliard  man  is  here  to  help  it  on.  lUit  Nora 
told  me  he  brought  a  letter  from  sonic  friend  of  her 
father's  in  Ireland— or  had  been  in  his  old  home,  or 
something  of  that  sort— so  Dinny's  idea  of  hospi- 
tality wouldn't  permit  anything  but  to  take  him  in 
and  look  after  him.  He's  too  good  for  his  job,  is 
Nora's  father— plenty  of  the  men  who  are  trying  to 
oust  him  aren't  fit  to  tie  his  boots." 

"  But  that  other  one's  a  bad  place,  Irwin,"  ventured 
his  mother—"  the  Queen's  Arms,  I  mean." 

••  Oh,  the  one  Jock  Taylor  keeps— yes,  it's  a  low 
dive,"  agreed  the  son,  shaking  his  head. 

"  I  say,  Irwin,"  his  mother  suddenly  digressed,  her 
eyes  now  turned  towards  the  sugar  bu.-,li,  visible  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill  before  the  house.  "  I  hope  Xora'U  be 
all  right  down  there  ;  but  I  see  she's  left  her  rubbers— 
and  I'm  sure  it's  damp  in  the  woods.  Lots  of  wet 
spots,  aren't  there?"  as  she  picked  the  overshoes 
from  the  f^oor  where  the  girl  had  left  them. 


M 


*1^ 


'I   'I 


y 


17S 


1  HE   HANDICAP 


•'  That's  so,"  responded  tlic  youth,  speaking  as  dc- 
hberately  as  he  could  ;  "  it  certainly  is  mishty  damp, 
Some  places  in  there— and  especially  right  where  the 
triiliums  grow.  Those  swampy  spots  aic  lialf  water 
yet— but  I  guess  she'll  go  around  them." 

Ihere  was  a  delightful  little  flush  on  Margaret 
.  Icnzics'  cheek.  Did  she  remember?  Doubtless 
.s(j— nor  could  all  the  darkness  of  tiie  days  that  liad 
followed  make  the  briglitncss  of  that  long  ago  as 
though  it  had  never  been.  "  I  really  think  she  ough^ 
to  have  these,  Irwin,"  she  said  gravely,  holding  up 
the  rubber  shoes  in  her  hand  ;  •<  don't  you  think  you 
might  spare  time  to  run  down  with  them,  my 
son  ?  " 

He  hesitated  splendidly  ;  as  efifectively  as  a  maiden 
might  have  done.  "  I'm  pretty  busy,  mother,"  he 
began  seriously,  "and  that  field  really  should  be 
ploughed  to-day— but,  if  you  absolutely  think  she 
needs  them— if  you  think  I  ought  to?" 

Margaret  Menzies  never  smiled.  "  I  really  do," 
she  said  soberly ;  ••  it  wouldn't  matter  for  lots  of  girls 
—but  Nora's  a  dainty  thing,  you  know." 

Irwin  eyed  his  mother  rather  keenly  as  he  took  the 
shoes  from  her  hand.  But  there  was  nothing  in  her 
face  to  confirm  what  he  suspected  ;  wherefore,  with 
another  word  of  mild  protest,  he  took  the  little  parcel 
from  her  hand  and  started  towards  the  woods.     "  I'll 


1 1 


\f-^;mje-  ^  "li^--'  ^.^^**S':"»%-v:»t  »  v 


A    FACE    in    MEMORY  S    HALL     r;., 

be  riyht  back,"  he  announced,  turning  at  the  j;atc , 
"  I'll  come  back  as  soon  as  I  give  these  to  her." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Margaret  Menzies  ;  «  cunie 
right  back— of  course,  it  may  take  some  little  time  to 
find  her;  she  went  in  right  by  that  big  pin- tree— be- 
side the  rampike.  But  perhaps  you  saw  her—good- 
bye, my  son." 


W 

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XI 

7HE  CHASE-BY  THE  CEDAR  CREEK 

THE  tall  furm  r..vung  vigorously  on  towards 
the  stately  woods  in  the  distance,  and  the 
woman  turned  back  to  her  waiting  tasks. 
The  dishes  must  be  washed  and  things  must  be  set  to 
rights  ;  all  of  which  she  proceeded  ti)  attend  to,  smil- 
ing once  or  twice  as  she  t  uight  fragments  of  the  rather 
animated  dialogue  that  was  proceeding  above  stairs. 
And  once  or  twi^c,  too,  she  paused  from  her  lalours 
long  enough  to  go  out  on  the  fragrant  porch,  her 
eyes   shaded  by  her  hand,  and  search  the  distant 
woods  for  any  trace  of  the  youth  or  maiden  ti.at  were 
somewhere  within  its  deep  recesses.     Not  that  she 
expected  to  set  them,  or  to  find  them    'ready  retrac- 
ing tlieir  steps— oh,  no,  Margaret  Mcnzies  knew  the 
way  of  youthful  feet  too  well  for  that ;  not  yet  had  she 
herself  travelled  far  enough  from  the  paths  of  flower 
and  blossom   and   deep  protecting  shade  to  forget 
the  thrall  they  cast  over  two  ardent  hearts,  all  alone 
together  when  every  month  i:,  IMaj  .     So  she  sighed  ; 
then  smiled;    then  struggle-!  a  moment  with  those 
tears  that  have  their  mysterious  orbits  in  a  woman's 

I  So 


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The  CHASE-BY  7 he  CED/iR  CREEK     i8i 

eyes — then  let  them  freely  overflu.v,  returning  with 
plainti*  2  inten.Mtv  to  her  lowly  tasks. 

Meantime  Irwin  was  pursuing  the  tender  chase. 
Entering  the   woods   he  paused  and   looked  ahiiut 
him— and  really,  brisk  th  'ugh  his  pace  had  been,  it 
had   not  been  sharp  <  lough  to  justify  that  shun, 
quick  breathing'  that  came  from  the  parted  lips  as  he 
stood   rigid   in   his  tracks  and  searched  ti)c  shady 
ranges  of  the  woods.     What  i>  it — let  some  philoso- 
pher reply — that  stirs  the  heart  to  fever  and  quickens 
the  br.iin  to  a  kiii  J  of  semi-madness  when  some  ar- 
dent soul  looks,  and  looks  in  vain,  amid  Uic  mystic 
iiisles  of  the  f  rest,  f  t  that  elusive  one  that  yet  is 
known  to  be  there  all  the  while  ;  and  that  one  watch- 
ing, mayhap  wiili  love's  detective  cnift,  the  very  eyes 
that  roam  the  leafy  woods — so  deserted  while  so  pop- 
ulous, so  .ilent  while  so  vocal— fur  the  sight  tht  shall 
satisfy  the  hungry  heart  and  tui  n  the  wilderne  .  into 
a  garden?     Is  it  because  this  is  a  symbol  of  love's 
quest,  a   metaphor  of  all  maling,  as  lonely  hearts 
search  the  mazy  glades  of  life— desolate  until  their 
search  be  fruitful — for  the  one  blessed  preseme  that 
is  near  them  all  tht    time ;  and  which.  suddenl>-  ap- 
pearing,   tarts  all  the  flower-    blooming  and   tunes 
every  songster's  voice  to  music  never  heard  before  ? 

His  search  unavailing,  lie  whistled  gently.      This 
unsuccessful,  he   called   her   name,  timidly,  as   one 


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THE   HANDICAP 


might  call  along  cathedral  aisles.  No  answer  came. 
He  called  again  ;  he  did  not  know,  though  all  the 
forest  knew,  that  no  sweeter  name  could  be  launched 
through  leafy  groves,  echoing  and  reechoing  there. 
"  Nora  ! "  surely  no  name  could  ring  so  musical 
through  such  embowered  halls. 

Still  no  answer  came.  Whereat  he  sat  down  on 
a  fallen  tree— ignoble  use  for  prostrate  monarch— 
and  peered  about  him.  Perhaps  he  was  slightly 
irritated,  so  perverse  is  the  heart  of  early  manhood. 
Trace  of  dampness  he  saw  none ;  but  every  moment 
deepened  his  conviction  that  she  should  be,  and 
must  be,  protected  from  the  moisture  that  oiight 
to  be  in  forests,  even  if  just  then  it  could  not  be 
found.  Musing,  he  was  still  in  doubt;  he  almost 
contemplated  the  advisability  of  return,  yet  sternly 
resolved — though  himself  unaware  of  it — that  return 
he  would  not. 

Suddenly,  though  full  five  minutes  after  his  last 
call,  he  heard  a  low  "  coo-ee "  from  some  hidden 
glade  far  beyond  him.  Whereat  he  started  up,  like 
some  roe  of  the  forest,  and  started  in  the  direction 
of  the  sound  with  an  ardour  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  the  best  of  crusaders  in  the  brave  days  of 
old.  Coming  near  to  what  he  considered  the  source 
of  the  sound,  her  name  floated  from  his  lips  once 
or  twice  again ;  and  once  more  a  strange  fever  took 


The  CHASE— BY  7he  CEDAR  CREEK    183 

possession  of  him  when  no  answer  reached  him 
but  the  echo  of  his  voice.  Two  or  three  minutes 
later  a  faint  note  lent  wings  to  his  feet  again, 
this  time  in  a  different  direction — for  the  laws  of 
forest  life  are  mysterious  and  maddening.  Again 
he  called,  his  call  again  unanswered.  But  suddenly, 
his  heart  leaping  at  the  sight,  there  fluttered  before 
him  for  an  instant,  vanished  like  the  flash  of  a 
butterfly's  wing  in  the  sun,  the  blue  banner  of  a 
sash.  He  had  seen  it  before,  only  a  short  half 
hour  agone  ;  but  why,  oh,  why — let  the  philosopher 
again  explain — was  this  particular  millinery,  so 
commonplace  and  unnoticed  then,  why  was  it  now 
endowed  with  such  sacred  light,  such  mystic  power  to 
send  his  heart  leaping  and  bounding  within  the  cruel 
confines  of  a  bosom  as  boisterous  as  a  troubled  sea  ? 
Wonderful  is  the  fleetness  that  can  mark  even  a 
ploughman's  feet !  For  Irwin  bounded  forward  like 
a  deer,  his  hands  outstretched  in  unconscious  eager- 
ness. But  the  blue  banner  could  still  be  seen,  unre- 
treating  now ;  whereat,  controlling  himself,  he  cov- 
ered the  last  portion  of  his  chase  with  careful 
dignity,  commanding  a  leisurely  pace,  even  taking 
thought  to  thrust  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of 
his  smock  as  he  came  down  the  slight  decline 
that  led  to  "  The  Cedar,"  for  such  was  the  name 
of  the  creek  that  flowed  through  the  Ainslie  farm. 


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|84 


THE  HANDICAP 


And  there  she  was,  perched  in  the  most  non- 
chalant fashion  on  one  of  the  biggest  stones  by 
the  water's  edge.  •«  Hello,"  she  said,  looking  up  in 
violent  surprise ;  "  is  that  you  ?    After  flowers  t«  o  ?  " 

His  smile  was  very  faint.  "  You  heard  me  call — 
you  know  you  did,"  he  said,  looking  reproachfully 
at  her. 

"  You're  dreadfully  out  of  breath,"  she  answered, 
the  face  twinkling  as  it  was  upturned  from  the 
stream — ^"anyhpw,  I  answered  you." 

"  Yes,  and  then  you  ran  away,"  he  returned, 
frowning,  growing  steadily  sorrier  for  himself;  "and 
I  hadn't  really  any  time  to  lose — I  ought  to  be 
ploughing  right  now,"  jerking  his  head  backward 
towards  the  distant  field  he  had  forsaken. 

"  Well,  why  didn't  you  plough  ?  I  told  you,  you 
know,  that  you  weren't  to  let  us  interrupt  you 
at  all." 

"  It  wasn't  my  doing,"  he  answered,  a  little  ungal- 
lantly ;  "  mother  coaxed  m^  to  come.  She  was 
afraid  it  might  be  wet  down  here,  and  she  wanted 
me  to  bring  you  these — these — oh  !  what  on  earth 
have  I  done  with  those  rubbers  ? "  he  exclaimed, 
turning  his  back  full  on  the  girl,  still  muttering  as 
he  searched  the  woods  behind  him. 

The  silvery  laughter  that  flowed  from  her  lips 
blended  well  with  the  tinkling  brook.    •«  You're  sure 


7he  CHASE— BY  The  CEDAR  CREEK    185 

you  haven't  got  them  on  yourself?"  she  suggested, 
the  chime  ringing  again. 

He  stamped  his  foot.  Nora  could  see  the  mighty 
shoe,  and  caught  the  gleam  of  the  hobnails  in  its 
sole  a  moment.    Another  peal. 

"  Confound  it,"  he  mused,  very  red  in  the  face, 
"  I  must  have  left  them  on  that  log — I  sat  down  on 
a  log,  for  a  long  time,"  he  said,  turning  round  to  the 
girl,  and  there  was  something  triumphant  about  the 
words ;  ••  yes,  I  sat  down  and  rested  a  long  time — 
and  I  must  have  left  them  there." 

She  frowned  in  great  disconsolateness.  "  And 
you  forgot  all  about  poor  little  me,"  she  reproached 
him,  her  eyebrovvs  arching  irresistibly;  "oh,  I  un- 
derstand, I  understand  all  right,  you  sat  down  on  a 
log — and  you  forgot  there  was  such  a  person  in  the 
world  as  Nora  Riley.  Ah,  well,  that's  just  like  a 
man — and  I  was  in  one  dreadful  wet  place  too," 
she  affirmed,  shaking  her  head  most  seriously.  He 
could  see  the  wind-blown  hair  reflected  in  the  pure 
wave  beneath. 

"  I'll  go  back  and  get  them,"  he  suddenly  an- 
nounced, starting  as  he  spoke ;  "  I  won''  long — 
and   it  serves   me  right." 

The  maiden  protested.  "  I  don't  want  them,"  she 
cried  after  him;  •' I  don't  need  them — and  I  won't 
wear  them — and  anyhow,  one  of  them  has  a  hole." 


II 


i86 


THE   HANDICAP 


But  he  was  gone  with  swift  strides.  She  waited, 
gazing  for  a  time  into  the  brook  at  her  feet.  But 
soon  it  was  her  eyes  that  were  searching  the  forest 
shade,  her  ears  that  were  listening  for  the  crackhng 
footstep  so  long  in  coming.  And  the  only  difier- 
ence  between  the  search  ng  two  was  that  his  was  the 
face  of  strength  and  hers  the  face  of  beauty. 

By  and  by  he  appeared,  the  delinquent  articles  in 
his  hand.  "  Sorry  to  take  s  long,"  he  said  abruptly 
as  he  came  up  to  the  boulder  on  which  she  was 
seated ;  "  but  I  found  a  broken  piece  in  the  fence — 
on  the  north  side,  as  I  went  back — and  I  stopped  to 
fix  it.     The  sheep  are  in  the  outer  field,  you  know. ' 

"  I  didn't  think  you  were  long,"  she  said ;  "  but  I 
don't  want  those  things — although  it  certainly  was 
thoughtful  of  your  mother  to  make  you  bring 
them." 

He  made  no  answer,  but  knelt  beside  the  rock  and 
held  out  the  rubber  shoelets  towards  her.  She  gazed 
fixedly  into  the  water.  "  There's  a  trout  in  there," 
she  said  ;  "  I  wish  you  had  brought  me  a  hook  and 
line  instead  of  those  things — I  can  see  him  now,  the 
aggravating  creature,"  as  she  made  a  flourish  that 
flashed  the  dweller  of  another  world  to  his  hiding- 
place  beneath  a  near-by  stone. 

Without  a  word  he  extended  a  hand  and  laid  hold 
of  one  tiny  foot,  idly  swinging  above  the  water's 


The  CHASE— BY  7 he  CEDAR  CREEK    187 

edge.     Then,  awkwardly,  bunglingly,  he  tried  to  ad- 
just the  rubber. 

"  You're  tired  out,"  she  said  sympathetically ; 
"  look  how  your  hand's  shaking." 

"  It's  because  I  have  to  stand  on  these  two  stones," 
he  answered,  his  breath  coming  fitfully ;  "  the  other 
foe:,  please." 

"  Aren't  you  glad  I  have  only  two  ?  "  Fishes  must 
have  ears,  for  as  the  girl's  laughter  sounded,  the  fugi- 
tive came  out  from"  his  rocky  cave  and  lay  listening 
in  mid- water,  like  the  veriest  eavesdropper.  "  And 
you've  got  them  on  wrong,  as  it  is,"  she  went  on 
jauntily;  "so  you'll  just  have  to  take  them  off  again 
— you've  got  them  mixed  up,  they're  on  the  wrong 
feet.  So  you'll  have  to  take  them  off  and  put 
them  on  right — there,"  as  she  held  one  of 
them  out  in  front  of  him.  The  listener  from  the 
wave  floated  near  her  as  the  girl's  laughter  rang 
again. 

He  flushed,  no  word  escaping  him  as  he  obeyed 
her,  stolidly  proceeding  to  do  as  she  said. 

"  Say,  Irwin,"  she  began  before  he  had  finished, 
"  are  you  going  to  the  party  at  the  Dustans'  to-mor- 
row night — they  say  it's  going  to  be  a  terribly  stylish 
affair.  Are  you  asked  ?— I'm  not,"  shaking  her  head 
gravely,  if  not  mournfully,  as  she  gazed  again  into 
the  stream. 


'i' 


188 


THE  HANDICAP 


He  did  not  answer.  "  Are  you  going  ? "  she  re- 
peated. "Did  you  get  an  invitation?— -tell  me, 
Irwin." 

He  lifted  his  serious  eyes  to  hers.  "Nora,  are 
you  trying  to  trifle  with  me  ?  You  know  I'm  not— 
yuu  know  I'm  never  asked  to  such  places,  and  such 
affairs,  as  those.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do, 
Nora." 

Her  face,  white  and  startled  looking,  showed  that 
she  understood  him.  Evidently  he  noticed  her  pain, 
for  he  asked  quickly :  "  But  why  are  you  not  in- 
vited ?— that's  what  I  want  to  know." 

Perhaps  the  girl  was  glad  of  the  opportunity  his 
question  gave  her.  At  any  rate  her  answer  came 
with  lightning  speed.  "I'm  ruled  out  too— never 
now,  never  since  I  was  a  little  girl.  I  used  to  get 
asked  then,"  she  added,  sighing  a  truly  womanly 
sigh.  "  But  you  know— you  know,  Irwin— I'm  only 
a  tavern-keeper's  daughter.  So  I'm  on  the  black  list, 
you  see — they  don't  want  me  any  place  now,'  the 
merry  voice  of  a  moment  before  now  threatening  to 
break  v/ith  pain. 

"  What's  that  f  "  he  said  sharply.  "  I  can  under- 
stand—about me— and  I  despise  the  whole  pack  of 
them,"  he  blurted  out  hotly ;  "  but  this  about  you— 
do  you  say  it's  about  the,  about  The  Buck  Tavern, 
Nora?" 


7he  CHASE— BY  7 he  CEDAR  CREEK    1H9 


The  girl  nodded,  ruefully.  "  That's  it,"  she  said ; 
"some  one  told  me  Arthur  Dustan  said  so  him- 
self." 

"The  contemptible  puppy!"  broke  out  Irwin; 
"  but,  Nora — 1  can't  understand  it — why,  I  saw  him 
walking  with  you  only  the  other  evening?"  and  the 
strong  young  face  was  ashy  pale  as  he  waited  for  her 
answer. 

The  girl  hesitated,  colouring.  "  Yes,"  she  began 
embarraasedly,  "  yes,  he— he  often  does  that,  or  wants 
to,  at  least.  But  it's  quite  a  different  matter  when  it 
comes  to  inviting  one  to  their  home.  The  Dustans 
are  awful  proud,  Irwin,"  she  pronounced,  looking  at 
him  as  if  for  confirmation  of  her  words. 

"  Proud  as  peacocks,"  he  said  contemptuously 
"  and  barnyard  peacocks  at  that — don't  you  know 
who  his  mother  used  to  be,  Nora  ?  " 

"No,  tell  me,"  the  Uthe  form  leari  •  r  ^ard 
in  true  feminine  eagerness.  "  Wha«  a  ^  her, 
Irwin  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  just  will — she  used  to  work  at  The  Buck 
Tavern  herself,  long  ago.  Uncle  Arthur  told  me  so 
himself— used  to  make  the  beds,  and  cook  the  meals, 
and  everything  like  that.  Then  she  married  him — 
Arthur's  father,  I  mean.  And  he  got  rich— and  then 
she  thought  she'd  be  aristocratic,"  he  laughed  scorn- 
fully.    "  Uncle  Arthur  despises  them,  I  know— but 


•J 


I90 


7HE  HANDICAP 


they  think  he's  only  an  old  farmer— and  I  despise 
them  too,"  he  went  on  hotly.  ••  And  there's  another 
tiling,  Nora  Riley— there's  another  thing— if  I  ever 
catch  him  walking  with  yon  again,  I'll "  accom- 
panied by  a  gesture  of  such  violence  as  to  send  the 
eavesdropping  trout  into  his  city  of  refuge  again  at  a 
speed  never  yet  excelled  by  the  fleetest  of  his  kind. 

Nora  Riley's  Irish  bloou  leaped  to  her  face. 
"  You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  she  retorted  vigor- 
ously ;  "  I'd  have  you  understand,  sir,  that  I'm  old 
enough,  and  wise  enough,  to  take  care  of  my  own 
walking.  What  have  you  got  to  do  with  it,  I'd  like 
to  know  ?  "  smiling  in  an  exasperating  way  as  she 
rose,  standing  erect  on  the  stone  at  her  feet.  "  I'm 
going  to  do  a  little  walking  right  now,"  she  went  on 
coquettishly  ;  "  I'm  going  across  on  these,"  pointing 

to  the  other  side  of  the  boisterous  stream "  I  see 

some  flowers  over  there— and  I'm  going  to  pick  my 
own  steps,  this  way,"  as  she  started,  gathering  up  her 
skirts  a  little  and  stepping  from  stone  to  stone ; 
"glad  I've  got  those  rubbers  now-  hcigho.'that 
was  nearly  a  sousing,"  as  she  clambered  on  to  a  level 
stone  in  the  centre  of  the  brook. 

He  stood  silent,  surveying  her  as  she  stood  looking 
in  a  dismayed  sort  of  way  as  to  where  she  should  go 
next.  The  stones  between  her  and  the  farther  shore 
were  very  small  and  very  slippery.     Once  or  twice 


The  CHASE— BY  7 he  CEDAR.  CREEK    191 


she  put  out  a  dainty  foot  and  touched  the  one  ncar- 
chit  her;  it  rocked  alarmingly.  Still  he  stood,  uti- 
speaking. 

Finally  she  turned  upon  him.  "  I  thou^^ht  you 
were  a  gentleman,"  she  said  warmly — •'  but  i  sec  how 
easy  it  is  to  be  mistaken.  You  don't  care  if  I  get 
drowned,  do  you ? — look  there,"  as  she  pointed  at 
the  fleecy  little  waves  about  her  feet.  "  I  wjsh 
Arthur  Dustan  were  here  now,"  she  blurted  out  hotly 
at  last. 

He  winced,  bit  his  lip,  stood  still.  After  another 
long  look  at  him,  the  girl  suddenly  stamped  her 
foot  on  the  stone.  "  Come  and  help  me,  sir,"  she 
said  imperiously ;  •'  you  love  to  see  me  humble 
myself,  don't  you — just  because  I'm  a  poor  defense- 
less woman  ? "  the  rosy  lips  pouting  beyond  all 
power  to  describe,  the  voice  breaking  in  that  fas- 
cinating  way  known  to  womanhood  alone. 

The  hot  blood  surgeo  :o  his  face  and  the  passion 
of  his  soul  ran  riot  within  him.  Like  a  man  in  wrath 
he  strode  towards  her,  the  water  splashing  high  as  he 
came.  "  Don't,"  she  cried  reproachfully,  "  oh,  don't, 
Irwin — you'll  be  drenched,  you'll  get  your  death  in 
this  cold  water — step  on  the  stones,  Irwin,  step  en 
the  stones." 

He  heard  her  not,  splashing  on,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  stream  beneath  him.     Nor  did  he  lift  his  face  till 


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"  Give  mc  your  hand,"  he 


he  was  close  beside  her. 
said  hoaisely. 

The  delicate  palm  went  out,  resting  confidingly  in 
the  man's  strong,  rough  hand.  He  held  it  with  a 
tenderness  and  tightness  she  could  not  help  but  feel, 
the  touch  inflaming  his  very  soul.  Thus  holding 
her,  wading  recklessly  along,  he  guided  her  from 
stone  to  stone ;  once  she  almost  slipped,  and,  sway- 
ing unsteadily,  her  be  Jy  touched  him.  Like  a  hun- 
gry  thing  his  arms  went  out— barely  touched  the 
willowy  form,  then  withdrawn  by  a  mighty  will.  His 
face  was  pale  when  they  got  to  the  other  side,  and  he 
turned  away  almost  as  if  in  anger  when  she  began  to 
thank  him  for  his  aid. 

"I've  got  to  go  to  my  work  now,"  he  said 
brusquely ;  "  there's  a  little  foot-bridge  higher  up— 
there,  at  the  foot  of  thac  elm  you  see  beyond  the 
knoll,"  and  without  another  word  he  turned  and 
strode  back  through  the  water,  vanishing  a  moment 
later  within  the  shadow  of  the  woods. 

The  plough  drave  heavily  that  afternoon.  Musing, 
his  heart  aflame  within  him,  he  followed  the  lumber- 
ing team  up  and  down  the  field ;  an  observer  would 
have  srid  that  the  ploughman's  downcast  eyes 
proved  how  faithfully  he  watched  his  furrow,  nor 
have  ever  known  that  those  eyes  saw,  instead,  a 
fleecy  brook,  a  maiden's  sweetly  pouting  face,  a  dim- 


7 he  CHASE-BY  7 he  CEDAR  CREEK    193 

pled  arm  outstretched,  a  form  f-^ntly  swaying  towards 
himself — then  away  from  him,  far,  so  far  away. 

Suddenly  he  was  roused  from  his  reverie  by  the 
sound  of  horses'  hoofs ;  looking  up,  i.e  saw  that 
horse  and  rider  were  coming  in  tlie  lane,  and,  since 
he  was  already  reining  his  steed,  the  latter  evidently 
desired  an  interview  with  himself.  So  it  proved  to 
be,  the  horseman  beckoning  vij^orously  to  Irwin  to 
come  on  to  where  he  waited  by  the  fence.  The 
ploughman  hurried  his  laggard  span  and  was  soon 
near  enough  the  end  of  the  furrow  to  make  out  the 
face  of  his  visitor.  To  his  amazement,  and  consider- 
ably to  his  agitation,  too,  he  saw  it  was  none  other 
than  Arthur  Dustan  himself. 

Curtly  enough  Irwin  bade  him  the  time  of  day, 
slowly  climbing  the  fence  and  moving  out  beside 
him.     A  few  commonplaces  followed. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  rode  out  to  see  you  for,"  be- 
gan the  visitor,  tapping  his  leather  leggings  with  his 
riding-whip ;  •'  it's  about  Dinny  Riley — of  course, 
I'm  not  particularly  interested  in  him,  as  you'd 
naturally  expect,"  the  air  of  superiority  heating 
Irwin's  blood  already.  "  Our  paths  don't  exactly 
run  parallel — as  you  know,"  he  went  on  patroniz- 
ingly, "  but  I  want  to  do  him  a  good  turn  if  I  can. 
And  it's  about  this  ranting  temperance  lecturer  that's 
here — Milliard's  his  name,  you've  heard  about  him — 


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and  it  seems  he's  moving  heaven  and  earth  to  bring  on 
a  vote  to  put  the  saloon  men  out  of  business.  Well, 
my  idea  is  this — we  calculate  to  put  him  out  of  busi- 
ness, coming  round  here  and  trying  to  stir  up  strife. 
So  two  or  three  of  us  are  trying  to  arrange  to  get  hold 
of  him  to-night  before  his  lecture — and  put  him  out 
of  harm's  way,  till  it's  too  late — and  we  thought  a 
rail  might  be  good  enough  for  him  to  ride  on — and 
we  kind  of  fancied  you  wouldn't  mind  if  we  came 
out  here  and  spent  a  couple  of  sociable  hours,  till  the 
lecture  time  was  past  ?  So  I  thought  I'd  canter  out 
and  speak  to  you  about  it — besides,  you're  a  pretty 
husky  chap,  and  we  thought  you'd  be  just  the  man 
to  lend  us  .  hand  at  the  business." 

Dustan  paused,  looking  into  the  other's  face  for  an 
answer.  Irwin  shook  his  head,  stroking  the  horse's 
silky  mane,  but  never  looking  at  the  man  above  him. 
"  Your  little  scheme  doesn't  appeal  to  me,"  he  said 
after  a  minute  or  two  of  silence,  "And,  if  you  do 
carry  it  out,  mind  you  don't  come  near  here,"  his 
glance  now  turning,  a  little  darkly,  up  to  the  man  in 
the  saddle.     "  Hilliard's  a  friend  of  mine." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  exclaimed  Dustan,  "  a  friend  of 
yours  ? — he  is,  like  the " 

"  That's  what  he  is,"  Irwin  answered  stolidly,  "  in 
fact,  he's  a  guest  of  ours — we're  entertaining  him  to- 


ri r^r 


. '» 


' 


The  CHASE-BY  The  CEDAR  CREEK     195 

Dustan  straightened  up  and  sat  back  in  his  saddle. 
A  low  whistle  escaped  his  lips.  "  Heigho !  "  he  said, 
"  so  that's  what's  trump,  is  it  ?  I  heard  that  the  two 
of  them — he  and  the  Riley  girl — went  into  the  coun- 
tr}'  to-day.  That's  what  made  me  hot  at  him,  to 
think  the  whiskey  sellers  are  so  good  to  him,  and 
then  he  tries  to  swamp  them.  Is  he  at  the  house 
now,  Menzies  ? "  turning  and  looking  over  his 
shoulder  towards  the  farmhouse. 

Irwin  nodded.  "  Uncle's  showing  him  the  view," 
this  with  a  faint  grin. 

Dustan  leaned  over  the  saddle.  Surely  that  was  a 
leer,  and  sinister  enough,  on  his  face.  Irwin  felt  in 
his  heart  what  was  coming ;  his  hands  clutched  fever- 
ishly at  the  horse's  mane. 

"And  Where's  the  little  fairy — in  the  house 
too?" 

"  You  talk  like  a  fool,"  said  Irwin,  strugghng  to 
control  himself.     "  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Menzies,  don't  get  grouchy — be- 
sides, you  know  all  right.  Is  Nora  at  the  house  too  ? 
— she  left  town  with  him  this  morning.  I  found  that 
out  aU  right,"  as  he  turned  and  looked  once  moie 
towards  the  farmstead. 

•'  No,  she  isn't,"  came  the  indiscreet  answer,  "  so 
you  may  save  yourself  the  trouble  of  going  over ; 
she's  in  the  woods,  gathering  flowers — and  there  are 


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four  fences  between  here  and  there,"  he  added,  smil- 
ing defiantly  up  at  him.  A  moment  later  he  could 
have  plucked  out  his  tongue,  remorseful  at  this  un- 
guarded speech. 

The  other  gathered  up  the  lines.  "  Suits  me  ex- 
actly," he  said  mockingly—"  Juno  here  would  sooner 
take  a  fence  than  eat  his  oats.  By  Jove,  I'll  just  go 
on  and  give  her  a  hand— I  want  to  have  a  talk  with 
her  anyhow,"  he  continued,  with  another  leer,"  want 
to  talk  over  the  temperance  subject  with  her.  Ha, 
ha  !  that's  a  good  one—yes,  by  Jove,  that  is  a  good 
one." 

"  You're  not  going,"  said  Menzies,  his  face  dark- 
ening, his  eye  fixed  hke  a  storm-cloud  on  the  laan 
above  him. 

"  Hoity-toity  !  "  laughed  Dustan,  already  turning 
his   horse,  "  this   is  a  pretty  time  of  day—does  he 
want  all  the  beauties  to  himself,  I  wonder.     Private 
park  of  your  own,  eh,  Men-zies?"  and  he  laughed 
coarsely  at  his  joke.    "  I'll  stop  on  my  way  back  and 
tell  you  how  I  got  along— this  won't  be  the  first  time 
I've  had  a  little  tete-a-tete  with  a  prett)^maiden  in 
the    May    woods— we're    both   young,  you   know, 
Menzies,"  and  he  winked  at  Irwin  with  an  expres- 
sion whose  meaning  the  other  could  not  fail  to  catch. 
"  You  contemptible  cad,"  fairly  hissed  <rom  be- 
tween the  ploughman's  teeth  as  he  leaped  towards 


The  CHASE-BY  The  CEDAR  CREEK    197 

the   man  in  the  saddle ;  "  you  infernal  hound—I'll 
show  you  where  you'll  go,"  as  he  seized  the  horse  by 
the    bridle-rein,  holding   it  with   one  hand  as   he 
worked  his  way  back  to  the  rider.     With  one  swift 
cut  Dustan  brought  his  riding-whip  full  across  his 
assailant's  face.     Half  blind,  and  letting  go  his  hold 
of  the  rein.  Irwin  seized  his  enemy  with  both  hands, 
greedily,  wrenching  him  bodily  from  the  saddle  to 
the  ground.     In  a  moment  he  had  him  by  the  throat, 
the  whip  in  his  other  hand— which,  in  a  blind  kind 
of  fury,  he  applied  to  the  prostrate  form  before  him 
till  Dustan's  yells  and  his  own  sense  of  mercy  gave 
him  pause.     The  horse  had  leaped  a  few  paces  from 
the  struggling  pair,  snorting  excitedly  where  he  stood. 
Irwin  leaped  towards  it,  frightened  it  with  a  shout, 
and  made  an  unavailing  cut  at  it  with  the  whip  as  it 
bounded  like  an  arrow  on  its  way  towards  town. 

"  There,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  back  and  surveyed 
the  cringing  form  now  risen  to  its  feet ;  "  now  you 
can  go— but  you'll  go  the  same  way  your  horse 
went— or  there's  more  for  you.  Here,"  as  he  tore  a 
rail  from  the  fence  and  heaved  it  contemptuously 
towards  Dustan,  "  ride  home  on  that— it  was  your 
N  own  idea,  you  mind— now  go,"  and  he  stood  glower- 
ing at  him  till  the  retreating  figure  was  beyond  the 
lane  and  well  on  the  way  towards  home. 


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XII 

MR.  MILLIARD  CONl^ALESCENJ-AND 
COMMUNICA'TIl^E 

WHILE  all  this  was  going  on—amid  the 
flowery  glades  of  the  sugar  bush  or  on 
the  dusty  scene  of  conflict  just  described 
—Arthur  Ainslie  and  his  loquacious  visitor  were  hav- 
ing an  interesting  time  in  the  upper  room  to  which 
they  had  repaired,  as  will  be  remembered,  when  din- 
ner was  concluded.     "  This  is  aye  the  view  I  show 
the  first,"  announced  the  Scotchman  gravely,  having 
gained   the  attic,  as  he  led  his  guest  to  the  east  win- 
dow; "it's  mebbe  no'  sae  graun'  as  yon,"  pointing 
over  his  shou.Jer  to  the  window  looking  south,  "  but 
it's  mair  imposin',  I  tell  ye  that— look,  yonner's  the 
graveyard  ;  see,  ayont  that  wee  hillock— it's  mebbe 
twa  miles  frae  here,  but  yehae  a  graun'  view  o'  't  a 
bonnie  day  like  this.     An'  there's  mair  folk   there, 
sleepin',  than  there  is  in  a'  Glen  Ridge;  I  counted 
them  no'  lang  since— on  a  holiday,  an'  I  had  a  graun' 
day  o'  't.     Aye.  it  ^  a  wonnerfu'  view,  is  it  no',  Mr. 
Hilliard?     Can  ye  mak  oot  yon  monyment  in  the 
middle  ?— weel,  I  was  a  bearer  at  that  funeral ;  the 

198 


J 


MR.    MILLIARD   CONl^ALESCEST        199 

corpse  asked  me  hinisel',  the  week  afore  he  died," 
and  Arthur  Aiiislie  turned  with  pardonable  pride  to 
find  his  visitor  hstening  with  wide-open  mouth  and  a 
very  startled  pair  of  eyes. 

"  I  don't  care  much  for  that  kind  of  a  view,"  the 
lecturer  responded  ;  "  it  doesn't  cheer  a  man  up  very 
much." 

"  That's  no'  what  we're  here  for,"  answered  Arthur 
Ainslie  ;  "  that's  no'  the  Creator's  will." 

"  It  keeps  a  man  too  mindful  of  what's  ahead  of 
him,"  enlarged  Mr.  Hilliard. 

"  That's  what  we  should  be  aye  thinkin'  on,"  re- 
turned the  Scotchman — ''  for  it's  aheid  o'  us  onyway, 
sae  it's  better  to  be  mindfu'.  Ah,  weel,  we'll  gang 
to  the  jther  window,  Mr.  Hilliard.  Mcbbe  it'll  please 
ye  better.  It's  graun',  my  man,  it's  fair  overpowerin'," 
as  he  turned  and  preceded  him  up  a  couple  of  steps 
that  led  to  the  topmost  gable  window.  "  Look  ye 
there,  an'  say  if  ye  ever  laid  eyes  on  a  finer  view  than 
that— \'e'd  find  yon  hard  to  beat  in  bonnie  Scotland 
itsel",  to  say  naethin'  o'  Canady — is  it  no'  graun', 
man  ? "  as  he  waved  his  hand  towards  the  panoramic 
scene,  a  truly  noble  vista,  hill  and  plain  and  valley  and 
stream,  and  silent  stately  woodland,  all  beguiling  the 
eye  onward  till  at  last  it  rested  on  far  distant  uplands 
that  seemed  to  blend  with  the  horizon  and  the  clouds. 

Mr.  HiUiard,  however,  for  some  mysterious  reason. 


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THE   HANDICAP 


did  not  seem  to  be  in  a  scenic  mood.  Restless,  ill  at 
ease  he  was,  as  though  something  were  lacking  that 
was  sorely  needed.  Very  languidly  he  surveyed  the 
view  before  him.  "  Yes,  it's  pretty  enough,"  he  said, 
suppr-essing  a  yawn. 

The  old  Scotchman's  eyes  flashed  fire,  and  he 
turned  almost  savagely  on  his  companion.  "  If  that's 
a'  ye've  got  to  sav — if  ye  canna'  find  fittin'  speech  for 
yin  o'  the  Creator's  glories — ye'd  better  liaud  yir 
whisht," he  said  sternly.  "'Pretty!'"  dwelling  scorn- 
fully on  the  tawdry  word,  "  like  ye  wa^,  speakin'  o'  a 
lassie's  doll !  Why,  man,"  he  went  on  impatiently,  as 
he  noted  his  vistor's  wandering  eye,  '<  ye" re  no' 
thinkin'  o'  the  view  at  a' — what's  takkin'  yir  a^en- 
tion  noo  ?  "  for  Mr.  Hilliard's  gaze  wu"  very  intently 
fixed  on  something  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room. 

"  That,"  admitted  the  lecturer  frankly,  "  that  box 
over  there —there,  behind  that  old  leather  trunk. 
That's  a  case  of  medicine,  is  it,  Mr.  Ainslie  ?  "  mov- 
ing down  the  steps  from  the  gable  and  drifting  by  a 
sure  and  certain  law  of  gravitation  towards  the  object 
m  question. 

"  Weel,  that's  what  it's  used  for,"   acknowledged 

Ar'chur    Ainslie,   accompanying   his   friend  closely; 

":  speeritsM  yon  bottle,  Mr.  Hilliard— an'  ye'll 

■  0  pleased  to  hear  it,  nae  doot— but  that's  what  it 

-    the  same.    An'  I'm  no'  ashamed  o'  't     I'm  no 


MR.   MILLIARD  CONVALESCENT 


•  1 1 

•  .41 


201 


taster,  mind  ye—in  fact,  I'm  a  teetotaller,  forbye  in 
cases  o'  needcessity ;  sae,  i  case  o'  a  chill,  or  a  fever,  or 
if  ye  get  bit  wi'  a  dog,  or  if  a  buddy  gets  wet  through 
wi'  the  rain,  or  chokit  up  wi'  dust  at  the  threshin', 
or  if  ye  get  kickit  wi'  a  beast,  or  hae  the  toothache, 
ye  ken — or  mebbe  a  buddy  tal's  a  faintin"  spell,  or 
canna'  digest  his  victuals,  or  has  a  wee  bit  colic  in  his 
insides,  or  gets  sair  news  aboot  a  friend,  or  mebbe  he 
canna'  sleep,  or  has  disturbia'  dreams,  or  tak's  a  sun- 
stroke, or  gets  nippit  wi'  the  frost  in  the  winter  time 
— or  tak's  a  chill,  or  a  fever " 

"  You  mentioned  both  of  those  before,"  interrupted 
Mr.  Milliard,  his  eye  still  fixed  abstractedly  on  the 
square  box  beneath  him.  The  neck  of  one  of  the 
vessels  within  it  could  be  seen  protruding. 

"  Aye,  nae  doot,"  returned  the  Scotchman  com- 
posedly, "  they're  the  commonest,  ye  ken— but  I'm 
no  taster,  as  I  tellt  ye.  An'  my  faither  was  the 
same,"  he  continued  proudly  ;  "  he  never  meddled 
speerits,  forbye  it  was  for  yin  or  ither  o'  thae— thae 
diseases,  an'  yin  or  twa  mair  I  didna'  mention." 

"  He  must  have  been  quite  an  invalid/  returned 
Mr.  Hilliard,  running  his  tongue  along  a  pair  of  very 
dry  lips;  "but  that  was  certainly  a  fine  line  of  dis- 
eases— they're  all  hereditary." 

"  I  dinna'  ken  onythin'  aboot  that,"  responded  his 
host,  deferential  to  the  word,  "  but  there's  yin  thing  I 


I  j' 


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303 


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due  ken— ony  man  wha  tak's  it  for  onythin  but  med- 
icine, he's  makin'  a  beast  o'  hiniscl'." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Milliard  impatiently  ;  "  and  so 
that's  why  you  keep  it  in  the  attic,  Mr.  Ainslie  ? " 

"  I  keep  it  ooto'  folks'  way,"  answered  the  Scotch- 
man promptly  ;  "  there's  nae  temptation,  wi'  it  here— 
if  ye  kept  it  doon-stairs,  ye  ken,  folk  wad  be  takkin' 
sick  every  time  they  cam'  to  visit  ye— they  keep  far 
healthier  when  tliey  dinna'  see  the,  the  medicihe,  afore 
their  eyes,"  and  Arthur  Ainslie  indulged  a  fe'ble 
smile. 

"  You  don't  feel  any  of  those  symptoms  now,  Mr. 
Ainslie— you  don't  happen  to  have  a  pain  about  you 
jus<:  at  present,  do  you?"  suggested  Mr.  Hilliard, 
drawing  a  little  closer  to  his  host  and  looking  solicit- 
ousl}'  into  his  face. 

Arthur  AinsUe's  answer  was  almost  stern.  "  No," 
he  said,  his  voice  full  of  reproach,  «  no,  sir— I'm  no' 
that  kind    i'  a  man." 

Mr.  Hilliard  sighed,  cast  a  lingering  glance  on  the 
treasure  box  before  him,  then  turned  and  gazed  out 
of  the  window  in  a  perplexed  and  despairing  way. 
Suddenly  hit  eye  beamed  with  the  new-born  light  of 
hope ;  gesticulating  eagerly,  he  called  his  host  to 
the  window.  "  Look,  Mr.  Ainslie,  look,"  he  cried 
— "  there— just  beyond  the  stack  ;  that  cow,  you  see 
—it's  got  its  head  through  the  fence  and  can't  get  it 


MR.   HILLI/IRD  CONVALESCENT      203 

back.      I  believe  it's  choking — look,  see    how  it's 
twisting  and  squirming." 

He  had  no  need  to  dwell  on  the  peril  of  the  situa- 
tion ;  for  Arthur  Ainslie,  careful  husbandman,  took 
in  the  circumstances  at  a  glance,  and  with  a  brief 
"  the  stupid  beastie — it'll  wring  its  ain  neck  if  I  dinna' 
get  it  oot,"  disappeared  swiftly  down  the  stairs  on  his 
expedition  of  r».lief;  leaving  his  guest  alone ! 

It  was  not  more  than  a  uarter  of  an  hour  or  so  be- 
fore he  was  back  again,  panting  a  little  from  his  ex- 
ertions as  he  climbed  the  stairs,  and  murmuring  some 
incoherent  narrative  of  the  proceedings.  But  he 
found  the  lecturer  a  new  man,  refreshed  and  inspired, 
with  returning  zest  for  Hfe  ! 

"  I've  been  taking  in  the  view  since  you  went 
away,  Mr.  Ainslie,"  he  began  volubly  as  his  host  re- 
turned; "and  I  find  I  was  quite  mistaken— what 
an  ungrateful  guest  you  must  have  thought  me — I've 
just  been  drinking  in  the  wonderful  prospect,"  he  ex- 
patiated, waving  his  hand  grandly  in  the  direction  of 
the  window,  "  and  I'm  bound  to  say  I  never  saw  a 
subUmer  panorama  in  my  life — those  glorious  trees, 
the  infant  grass,  so  pure  and  tender,  the  meandering 
stream  winding  like  a  many-coloured  ribbon  through 
the  peaceful  valley,  the  modest  flowers — they're 
heaven's  thoughts  towards  us,  Mr.  Ainslie — the  noble 
hills  lifting  their  heads  up  to  the  clouds  that  bend  to 


WW 
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If 

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kiss  their  brows,  and  the  whole  landscape  blending 
with  the  azure  blue — the  union  of  earth  and  sky,  as 
I  call  it,  Mr.  Ainslie — I  marvel  at  my  brumal  in-'iffer- 
ence.  But  how  changed  it  all  is  when  the  sun  comes 
out,  my  dear  friend,"  he  went  on  affectionately ;  "  the 
sun  came  out  in  a  sudden  burst  of  glory  just  after  you 
left  me — I  was  watching  from  the  window ;  just  as 
you  were  pulling  that  brute  back  by  its— by  its  tail, 
Mr.  Ainslie,  rescuing  it  nobly  from  its  dangerous  pre- 
dicament, for  it  might  have  kicked  you  to  death,  Mr. 
Ainslie.  Oh,  yes,  it's  a  beautiful  day  this— and  a 
beautiful  view — and  a  beautiful  world,  I  might  say, 
Mr.  Ainslie,  if  we  only  had  the  lightened  eye  to  see 
it,"  he  conclude^d,  quite  out  of  breath  by  now,  and 
unable  longer  to  conceal  the  emotion  that  possessc 
him. 

Arthur  Ainslie  gazed  in  amazement.  "  Ye're 
wrang  vvi'  yir  facts,"  he  answered  stolidly  after  a 
minute's  pause  ;  "  I  didna'  gang  near  the  tail  o'  the 
beast — wha  ever  heard  tell  o'  the  like  ?  I  pit  it  back 
by  the  heid  ;  I  tappit  it  ower  the  nose  wi'  a  stick,  ye 
ken." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  broke  in  the  othe.  enthusiastically ; 
"  you  took  the  bull  by  the  horns,  like  the  brave  yeo- 
man that  you  are — that's  what  I  meant  when  I  said 
the  tail.  But  about  the  view — I  took  another  look 
it  the  graveyard,  too,  Mr.  Ainslie  ;  and  I  saw  it  all 


MR.  HILUARD  CONl^ALESCENl      205 


in  a  different  light.  How  subduing,  how  humbling, 
yet  how  inspiring,  to  see  where  the  rude  forefathers 
of  the  haml-'t  sleep.  I  gazed  at  them  long,  Mr, 
Ainslie — and  the  words  of  the  poet  wtuld  come  to 
my  mind:  'The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the 
grave.' " 

Arthur  Ainslie  stood  contemj^lating  the  man  before 
him,  the  keen  eyes  twinkling  as  they  first  surveyed 
the  effusive  lecturer,  then  slowly  turned  tiil  they 
rested   on  the   box  and  its  contents  in  the  corner. 

•'  Ye've  been  ha'ein'  a  pain  yirsci',  ha'c  ye  no*  ? ' 
he  said,  pawkily. 

"What's  that?"  replied  Mr.  Milliard  straightway, 
looking  everywhere  except  towards  that  i  articular 
corner. 

"  Ye're  quite  an  invalid  yirsel',  I  mean,"  explained 
the  canny  Scot,  still  gazing  at  the  source  of  supply  ; 
it  gave  abundant  signs  of  the  recent  interview. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  sir,"  retorted  the  lec- 
turer, a  note  of  indignation  in  the  tone  this 
time ;  "  I'll  be  obliged  if  you'll  explain,  sir." 

"  There's  naethin'  to  explain  aboot,"  returned  the 
old  man  quietly ;  he  moved  closer  to  Mr.  Hilliard  as 
he  spoke,  sniflfing  as  accurately  as  was  consistent 
with  courtesy;  "only  I  was  thinkin'  niebbe  ye'd 
been  ta'en  wi'  yin  o'  thae  diseases — I  thocht  I 
catchec'    'e  smell  c   medicine,  ye  ken,"  smiling  ami- 


i 


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206 


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ably    into    the   now   frowning  countenance  of   his 
friend. 

"  Do  yo  i  mean,  sir,"  his  guest  began  stormily, 
"  do  you  mean  to  insinuate  that  I've  been — been 
touching  your  box — your  box  containing  the  in- 
fernal stuff;  ihc  stuff,  sir,  that  turns  a  man  into  a 
beast,  that  robs  him  of  his  God-[  ven  powers; 
that  Clothes  the  home  in  rags  and  siu,.  the  widow 
in  despair — I  mean,  that  sinks  the  home  and  clothes 
the  widow — cither  one,  both— that  takes  the  bread 
out  cf  the   orphan's   mouth,  and " 

"  We'll  gang  doon-stairs,"  said  Arthur  Ainslie 
quietly,  turning  as  he  spoke.  "  Ye  dinna'  ken 
what   ye're   sayin'." 

A  kind  of  howl,  k-lf  rage,  half  remonstrance, 
came  from  the  lips  of  the  orator.  VV'ith  n  quick 
movement  he  put  himself  between  liis  companion 
and  ♦he  stair,  then  turned  and  peered  into  the  other's 
face;  indeed,  in  his  eagerness  ti  fix  his  attention, 
he  .seized  the  Scotchman  by  both  shou'ders  as  he 
broke  out,  his  lips  trembling  ii.  excitement :  "  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  saying,  don't  I?  Well,  that 
settles  me,"  his  voice  shaking,  but  less  with  anger 
than  with  agitation.  '<  There's  something  I  do  know, 
Mr.  Ainslie — and  I  wasn't  going  to  let  you  know  I 
knew.  At  least,  I  was  in  doubt  about  it.  But  now 
I'll  let  you  see  I  know  inore  than  you  think  for 


MR.   HILUARD  CONk'ALESCENr       307 

perhaps  more  than  you  do  yourself,  about  the  whole 
affair." 

He  stopped,  peering  into  the  Scotchman's  astcn- 
ished  face.  "  I  dinna'  ken  wliat  yerc  nicanin'— \ cd 
better  speak  plain  oot."  came  in  a  pantin-  kind  cf 
intensity  from  the  startled  man.  He  moved  back- 
ward a  step  or  two  as  he  spoke,  fur  something'  uf 
ghostly  import  seemed  to  look  out  at  him  from  the 
eyes  fixed  so  ,:rreedily  on  his  own— like  a  white 
face  through  a  lattice  in  the  dark 

"Ah!"  breathed  Hilliard  heavily,  ••  I  thought  Id 
get  y-ar  interest.  Woil,  1  won't  disappoint  you— 
it's  about  your  niece." 

"My  niece!  "  echoed  the  shaking  voice  of  the  old 
man;  "is  it  Margaret  ye're  meanin'?"  thougu  his 
blanched  face  told  full  well  that  he  knew  it  could 
be  no  other. 

••  Yes,"   returned  his   guest   with   a   jerk  of    the 
head ;  the  muddled  garrulousness  of  a  few  minutes 
before  seemed  to  have  disappeared  with  the  quicken- 
ing of  this  sharp  encounter ;  "  yes,  she's  the  only 
one  you've  got-so  far  as  I  know.     And  I  know  all 
about  /ler,  sir,"  a  sort  of  maudlin  grin  returning  for 
a  moment,  as  quickly  repressed.     "  I've  seen  her  at 
Hawck— lots  of  times.    And  the  boy—I  never  saw 
htm  before— but  I  heard  about  him  often  enough," 
and  he   smiled  significantly  into  the  ashy  face  before 


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208 


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him.  "  I  heard  all  about  it — about  the  whole  busi- 
ness— and  nobody  blamed  her,  I'm  bound  to  say 
that,"  he  added,  shaking  his  head  in  the  most 
magnanimous  way. 

"  Whisht  ye,"  said  the  Scotchman  in  a  low,  stern 
voice ;  "  she'll  hear  ye — she's  doon  the  stair,"  grief 
and  tenderness  mingling  in  the  words. 

"  Wouldn't  hurt  her  feelings  for  the  world,"  was 
the  reply ;  "  as  I  said,  nobody  blamed  her." 

The  Scotchman's  movement  towards  him  was  al- 
most cat-like,  and  a  strange  stealthiness  of  purpose 
was  visible  all  over  his  face — anguish,  passion,  a  deep 
sort  of  cunning  too,  were  all  written  there. 

"  Wha  did  they  blame  ? "  he  asked,  his  voice  a 
hoarse  whisper. 

"  They  blamed  him,  of  course — who  else  ?  " 
promptly  replied  the  lecturer, 

"  Ye  mean  the  faither — Irwin's  faither — it'll  be  him 

ye're  meanin'  ?  "  s  lid  the  old  man,  drawing  closer  still. 

The  oth  2r  nodded. 

"  Div  ye  ken  him  ?  " 

"  Never  saw  him.  But  I  know  who  he  was — who 
he  is — all  right ;  everybody  over  there  knew — and  I 
think  you've  seen  him  yourself.  He  lives  not  so  far 
from  here." 

The  Scotchman's  breath  was  comiiig  quickly  and 
heavily.    "  Tell  me  his   name,"   he  said,   standing 


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MR,   MILLIARD  CONl^ALESCENT      2o<) 

rigidly   still    and    straight,  his  frame  quivering  a 
moment  later  as  he  waited. 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  " 

Arthur  Ainslie  shook  his  head. 

"  I  told  you  I  knew  something  you  didn't,"  re- 
torted the  other,  a  touch  of  resentment  in  his  voice ; 
"  even  if  you  did  accuse  me  of " 

"  Yon  has  naethin'  to  dae  wi'  this,"  interrupted 
the  Scotchman  sternly;  " gi'e  me  the  man's  name  I 
tell  ye." 

Mr.  Hilliard  paused  for  nearly  a  minute,  the  sus- 
pense enjoyable.  But  Arthur  Ainslie  never  took  his 
eyes  from  his  face;  raptly  fixed,  half  appealing  and 
half  demanding,  they  seemed  to  wait  for  the  word  as 
a  tiger  waits  for  his  prey  to  leap  from  the  jungle. 

Suddenly  the  lecturer  leaned  over  and  whispered 
in  his  ear. 

The  blood  rushed  back  to  Arthur  Ainslie's  livid 
face  ;  he  seemed  almost  to  rise  a  moment  from  where 
he  stood,  so  violent  was  the  convulsion  that  wrung 
his  frame.  Then,  relaxing,  he  reeled  as  if  about  to 
fall,  Mr.  Hilliard  involuntarily  putting  forth  his  hands 
to  steady  him. 

'• '  McLarty,'  did  ye  say  ?  Is  that  the  name— tell 
me,  man,  tell  me  again  ;  for  God's  sake,  dinna'  keep 
me  standin'  here,"  as  his  outstretched  hand,  trem- 
bling, grasped  the  other  by  the  wrist. 


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210 


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"That's  the  name,"  HiUiard  answered  in  a  low 
voice.  Something  else  he  added,  in  a  tone  that  could 
scarcely  be  heard. 

"Aye,  I  ken— I  ken— I  ken  him  fine,"  the  old 
man  gasped  excitedly ;  "  aye,  Peter  McLarty  was  his 
brither— him  that  died  lang  syne.  An'  that's  what 
made  David  sae  rich— he  cam'  intil  his  brither's 
wealth  when  he  died.  Ye  ken  where  he  lives,  div  ye 
no'  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,"  returned  the  lecturer,  "  but  i  know 
it's  some  place  not  so  very  far  from  here— I've  heard 
the  name  of  the  town,  I  think,  but  I've  forgotten  it." 

"  Wad  ye  ken  if  ye  heard  it— is  it  Hastie's  Mills  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  was  the  prompt  reply ;  "  yes,  that's  it 
— that's  certainly  it." 

There  was  no  chair  in  the  attic,  nor  bench,  nor 
anything  to  which  a  stricken  man  might  stagger  and 
sit  down,  except  those  two  or  three  steps  that  led  up 
to  the  gable  window.  And  the  words  that  made  him 
certain  of  the  worst  had  hardly  fallen  on  his  ear- 
identifying  the  dread  McLarty  beyond  a  doubt— be- 
fore Arthur  Ainslie  had  shambled  over  to  the  little 
stair  and  sunk  down  upon  it  with  his  face  between 
his  hands.  A  deadly  pallor  had  overflowed  his 
cheek,  and  his  lips  were  the  hue  of  death.  So  short 
and  quick  was  his  breathing,  and  so  evident  were  the 
tokens  of  distress,  that  Mr.  Hilliard  became  instantly 


MR.  MILLIARD  CONVALESCENT  211 
alarmed.  Hurrying  over  to  him  he  inquired,  and  ,)ot 
without  much  sohcitude.  as  to  the  cause  of  thi.  .ud- 
den  collapse. 

He  had  not  far  to  seek.  The  reticence  of  his  race 
and  the  habit  of  a  lifetime,  yielded  before  this  biilou' 
that  had  so  suddenly  broken  on  the  old  Scotchman's 
defenseless  head.  -He's  ruined  us  ba.th.  I'm 
dootm',"  he  murmured.  •'  Margaret  an'  me.  /^'s  hivi 
that  has  the  mortga<^c/" 

"The   mortgage?"  exclaimed   Mr.   Hilhard.  st.ll 
stoopmg  over  the  bended  forr 

"  Aye.  the  mortgage-on  this  new  hoose.  ye  ken 
I  builded  it  afore  I  was  ready-afore  I  had  a'  the 
money.     It   was  for  Margaret's  sake ;  no'  that  she 
wantit  it-but  I  didna-  think  the  auld  ym  was  cozy 
eneuch  for  her.     Sae  I  borrowed  the  money-an'  it 
was  frae  him.  frae  McLarty.  in  Hastie's  Mills.     But  I 
d.dna'  ken."  the  old  man  went  on.  straightening  up 
and  shaking  his  fist  fiercely  at  some  imaginary  foe  • 
"  I  d  hae  lived  wi'  the  beasts  i'  the  barn  afore  I'd  hae' 
taen  a  shillin'  o'  his  cursed  money-if  I  had  kent  he 
was  Margaret's  destroyer.     I  never  tellt  her  aboot  it 
-an    I  dmna'  think  she  kens  he's  there  at  a'      Oh  • 
oh.  I'm  wae  to  think  on  't-I'm  wae  to  think  on  't  " 
and  the  pathos  of  the  broken  voice  was  deep  and 
movmg  as  the  old  man  sat  with  hidden  face,  rocking 
to  and  fro. 


11'! 

if: ' 


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15 
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212 


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Mr.  Hilliard  was  quite  at  a  loss ;  how  to  comfort 
his  friend  he  knew  not.  But,  after  a  minute  of  per- 
plexed silence,  a  possible  expedient  suggested  itself. 
'•  You're  in  pain,  are  you  not,  Mr.  Ainslie  ?  "  he  mur- 
mured tenderly,  bending  lower  in  his  solicitude. 

"  It's  anguish  I'm  in,"  responded  the  Scotchman 
tersely. 

"  That's  what  I  thought ;  and,  perhaps — perhaps 
you'd  be  the  better,  Mr.  Ainslie,  the  better  of  a  Httle 
of — of  that  medicine  over  there,"  he  suggested,  look- 
ing towards  the  dispensary  with  an  expression  that 
would  indicate  he  was  in  mortal  agony  himself. 

"  I  unnerstaun'  ye,"  returned  his  host  without 
looking  up — "  but  it's  no'  for  this  kind  o'  a  pain. 
Oh !  it's  wae  I  am,  to  think  on  't,"  still  rocking  back 
and  forward. 

"  Well,  perhaps  this  comes  under  the  head  of — of 
•  bad  news  about  a  friend,' "  pursued  the  other,  still 
hoping  against  hope  that  he  had  now  located  a  fit- 
ting malady. 

But  none  of  these  things  moved  the  stricken 
Scotchman.  "  The-e's  nae  cure  for  a  broken  heart," 
he  said  with  bitter  emphasis.  "  I  canna'  meet  it,"  he 
crooned  wailingly  to  himself;  "  I  canna'  pay  it — an' 
he'll  put  me  an'  Margaret  on  the  pairish — he's  ruined 
Margaret,  an'  noo  he's  ruined  me.  But  God  AL 
michty  '11  be  his  judge,"  he  cried  with  sudden  pas- 


i 


MR.   MILLIARD  CONl^ALESCENT       21  j 
sion,  rising  to  his  feet  and  stalking  to  the  window; 
"it's   ower  there  he   Hves—thirty  mile   ayont  that 
risin'    hill.     An'  Jehovah   '11   be  his   Judge-He'U 
speak  wi'  him  in  the  gate.     An'  he'll  find,  when  its 
ower  late,  that  his  path  leads  doon  to  Hell,"  the  old 
man's  voice  rising  like  the  winter  wind—"  an'  sudden 
tribulation  shall  come  upon  him,  like  travail  on  a 
woman  wi'  child-an'  he  shall  not  escape,"  standing 
now  in  spectral  stillness,  his  long  arm  and  bony  fore- 
finger pointing  far  beyond  the  distant  hill.    "  Noo 
I'll  gang  till  my  work,"  he  added  a  moment  later, 
his  voice  strangely  soft  and  low;  "an'  ye'll  gang 
back    to   the   toon— the  lassie's  here;  I  heard  her 
speakin'  wi'  Margaret  on  the  porch."  as  he  beckoned 
to  the  wondering  man  and  led  the  way  down  the 
narrow  stair. 


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B^^E^3B5 


XIII 
HOH^  DINNY  COACHED    THE   ORATOR 

N"  EITHER  one  was  without  ample  food  for 
reflection  as  Nora  and  Mr.  Hilliard  re- 
traced their  footsteps  to  Glen  Ridge.  But 
few  words  broke  the  silence,  each  mentally  em- 
ployed, each  little  aware  of  what  engrossed  the 
other's  thoughts.  Nora  took  it  for  granted  that  the 
lecturer  was  silently  rehearsing  the  oration  whose  de- 
livery was  due  a  few  hours  hence. 

The  lecturer,  however,  was  but  little  concerned 
therewith;  his  thoughts  were  occupied  with  the  dis- 
tressing situation  Mr.  Ainslie  had  disclosed  to  him 
— to  say  nothing  oi"  even  more  insistent  troubles 
of  his  own.  Which  were  not  lacking.  For  the 
drought  which  so  often  had  mastered  him  be- 
fore had  settled  once  more  upon  his  inward  parts 
—and  his  chief  concern  at  present  was  as  to  how  it 
should  be  quenched.  Hope  of  relief  from  the 
copious  shelves  or  generous  cellar  of  The  Buck 
Tavern  he  knew  there  was  none ;  for  between  him 
and  bHss  there  arose  the  forbidding  Irish  form  of 
Dinny   Riley,  proprietor  and   dispenser  though  he 

214 


i 


HOIV  DINNY  COACHED  The  ORATOR  21  j 
was.  But  just  as  they  had  passed  the  outskirts  of 
the  town,  a  glorious  inspiration  seizing  him.  lie 
struck  out  with  quickened  pace  and  buoyant  step 
his  head  erect,  his  eye  agluw  ;  and  Nora  had  all  she 
could  do  to  prevent  being  left  behind. 

"  Oh."  he  suddenly  began,  as  though  he  had  for- 
gotten her.  "  I  find  I  have  to  hurry-IVe  got  a  little 
matter  I  must  attend  to  before  I  go  home.  Almost 
forgot  all  about  it.  we've  had  such  a  pleasant  day. 
It's  in  a— a  place  of  business,  just  round  a  couple  of 
blocks.  And  I  won't  be  long ;  you  tell  your  father 
1 11  be  home  presently." 

"  I'm  not  in  a  hurry."  replied  the  girl,  solicitous 
lest  he  should  suspect;  "  I'll  just  go  round  with  you 
—I'm  not  tired  at  all,  Mr.  Hilliard." 

"  Couldn't  hear  of  it,"  rejoined  the  man  excitedly  ; 
"  it's  too  far  for  you.  And  besides."  lowering  his' 
voice  ominously,  "  it's  a  transaction  with  a  man— 
and  it's  partly  financial."  he  announced,  happy  in  tlie 
timely  thought ;  "  it  involves  a  money  consideraii,  a 
—not  much,  of  course,  but  it's  financial  all  the 
same." 

This,  as  he  expected,  put  an  end  to  Nora's  re- 
monstrance ;  and  Mr.  Hilliard  disappeared  from  view 
at  the  next  corner,  effusive  in  his  promises  of  quick 
return.  The  transaction  xvas  duly  completed— at 
the  Queen's  Arms  Tavern-and  through  the  medium 


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THE  HANDICAP 


of  a  sympathetic  lounger  on  the  corner,  well  pleased 
with  the  generous  toll  that  constituted  the  reward  for 
his  services  as  purveyor. 

In  consequence  of  all  which,  Mr.  Hilliard  did  ar- 
rive home  in  due  time,  it  is  true,  but  in  a  condition 
that  threw  poor  Dinny  into  a  state  of  agitation  not 
easily  to  be  described. 

"  Wouldn't  that  give  ye  palpitation  av  the  gizard, 
now  ?  "  exclaimed  the  proprietor  of  The  Buck  Tavern 
as  his  eyes,  after  anxious  watching,  at  length  fell 
upon  the  meandering  form  of  the  lecturer  of  the 
evening,  making  his  way  by  many  and  devious 
routes  towards  the  hostelry  in  the  distance.  "An' 
him  billed  to  lecture  at  eight  o'clock  to-night — on 
timperance,  too !  Sure,  the  folks'U  blame  it  all  on 
me — they'll  say  I  wanted  to  make  a  livin'  show  o' 
the  man  afore  the  neighbours  because  he's  agin  our 
business,"  with  which  and  several  other  sentiments 
inaudibly  expressed,  Dinny  strode  forth  to  meet  his 
returning  guest. 

"  Tired,"  murmured  Mr.  Hilliard  as  the  Irishman 
came  close,  "  I'm  so  tired— I  think  I'm  sick ;  I  be- 
heve  I've  got  one  of  those  diseases." 

"  What  the  divil  d'ye  mean  ?  "  was  Dinny's  sole 
response ;  "  come  on  home  wid  ye — sure  it's  meself 
will  put  the  repairs  on  ye,"  taking  the  arm  of  the 
now  lachrj'mose  orator  and  supplying  the  sense  of 


HOlf^  DINNY  COACHED  The  ORATOR    217 

direction  which  seemed  to  have  become    extinct 
within  him. 

Half  an  hour  later  various  sounds,  suggestive  of 
hurried  convalescence,  emerged  from  Mr.  Hilliard's 
little  room  up-stairs.  "It's  hot,  it's  too  hot- 
please  pour  some  cold  water  into  it,"  came  the  voice 
of  the  public  benefactor. 

"  Divii  a  dhrop— I'm  not  that  kind  av  a  man," 
was  Dinny's  retort.  "I  niver  put  watter  in  a 
man's  dhrink  in  my  life— my  father  kep'  The 
Black " 

"  Don't— don't  rub  so  hard,  Mr.  Riley.  I'll  drink 
the  rest  of  the  coffee,  if  you  won't  rub  so  hard— I'm 
not  a  Clydesdale  horse.  No,  I  won't  move  another 
step— I  tell  you  I'm  tired  walking  up  and  down  the 
room." 

"  That's  what  works  it  out  o'  ye,"  Dinny  assured 
him—"  ye'U  stiffen  up  an'  founder,  if  ye  don't  keep 
movin'.  What  kind  av  a  timperance  lecture  could 
ye  give  to-night— as  full  av  yer  subject  as  ye  are  ?  " 
Dinny  demanded  with  a  broad  grin  ;  "  come  on  wid 
ye -sure  it's  a  heavy  sweat  ye're  needin'.  There, 
jump  over  that  wood  box— now  back  agin.  I'll  hold 
ye.  Here,  more  cofTee— sure  it's  killin'  the  germs 
inside  o'  ye,  it  is." 

"  Let  me  lie  down  a  minute,"  pleaded  the  orator  ; 
"  I  read  in  a  bouk  once  that  you  should  always  lie  on 


■f'i 

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3'*  7HE  HANDICAP 

your  back  when  you're — when  you're  sick — it  dis- 
tributes the  blood  more  evenly,  it  said,"  sidling 
towards  a  very  inviting  bed. 

"  I'll  distribute  ye,"  said  Dinny ;  "  quick,  march. 
Sure  I  want  to  get  the  coffee  up  and  down  ye,  from 
yer  head  to  yer  toes.  That's  the  only  thing  that's 
anny  good  for  the  pizen  they  keep  at  the  Queen's 
Arms — low,  ondacent  dive,"  he  muttered  contemp- 
tuously. '•  Here,  keep  movin'  on — sure  it's  Dinny 
Riley  that's  goin' to  keep  f?i*h  wid  the  public  to- 
night," as  he  seized  the  arm  so  often  held  aloft  in  ora- 
torical achievement,  and  bore  his  guest  forward  on 
the  double  quick. 

"  Ouch  !  "  suddenly  roared  Mr.  Milliard ;  "  that 
hurts — you  tramped  on  my  foot — and  I've  got  a 
corn." 

"  I  didn't  do  annything  o'  the  sort — ye  walked 
unner  me,"  retorted  Dinny  stoutly ;  "  it's  inside  av 
ye  ye've  got  the  corn.  Come  on,  ye're  gettin'  dis- 
tributed all  right.  Here,  d'ye  see  that  there  crack — 
when  ye  can  walk  that,  an'  v/hen  ye  can  talk 
straight,  ye'll  be  able  to  lecture  all  right.  Stiddy, 
now — don't  fall  off.  There,  ye're  doin'  fine — sure 
it's  the  proud  man  I'll  be  when  ye're  struttin'  up  an' 
down  the  platform  to-night,  jawin'  the  natives  on 
*  The  Barroom  in  the  Home.'  Here,  take  another 
swig  o'  the  coffee — an'  try  an'  sweat ;  that's  what'U 


' 


HOIV  DINNY  COACHED  The  0RA70R    219 

fix  ye  up  like  a  mornin'  glory— why  the  divil  don't 
ye  sweat  ? " 

"  I  can't,"  moaned  the  lecturer  ;  "  I've  been  doing 
my  best.  But  I'm  not  well— I've  got  two  or  three 
of  those  diseases.  And  b  .^idcs,  it  don't  run  in  our 
family — none  of  the  Hilliards  ever  sweat — it  doesn't 
go  wi*;h  the  oratorical  temperament,  I  tell  you." 

While  these  were  the  exact  words  of  Mr.  Milliard, 
they  yet  convey  no  idea  of  the  thickness  01  utterance 
with  which  they  were  delivered.  And  this  Dinny 
had  duly  remarked. 

"  Ye're  in  no  fit  state  to  lecture  yet,"  he  declared, 
in  response  to  Mr.  Milliard's  oft-repeated  assurance 
of  the  completeness  of  his  cure.  "  Sure  they 
wouldn't  unnerstand  half  o'  what  ye  said.  Say 
•systematic.'"  demanded  Dinny;  "pronounce  the 
word,  I  mean." 

The  orator  plunged  in  and  did  his  best. 

"  Ye  sound  like  a  ste.m  pipe,"  snorted  Dinny  con- 
temptuously.    "  Try  it  agin." 

Mr.  Milliard  did  try  again,  with  slight  symptoms 
of  improvement.  Again  and  yet  again  Dinny 
insisted  on  the  rehearsal,  till  by  and  by  the  word 
was  fairly  intelligible. 


N 


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say 


suspicion,'  "  Dinny  ordered,  standing 
with  his  head  cocked 
the  result. 


a  little  to  one  side,  to  judge  of 


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320 


THE   HANDICAP 


The  eloquent  <>!ic  wrestled  with  it  as  best  he  could. 

"  Ye  sound  like  a  bottle  o'  ginger  ale  when  ye 
open  it  in  August,"  was  Dinny's  doleful  verdict. 
"  I  lerc,  take  some  more  coftce, — there's  nothin'  set- 
tles the  grounds,  inside  o'  ye,  like  a  swig  o'  coflee. 
Now  tackle  that  word  again." 

Which  Mr.  Hilliard  essayed.  And,  a. ^er  repeated 
attempts,  he  partially  subdued  the  sibilants. 

"  Now  say  « sarsaparilla,'  "  Dinny  directed  with  the 
air  of  Socrates  ;  ♦'  when  ye  can  say  that— ye'rc  well," 
with  which  he  sat  down  on  the  bed,  aware  that  this 
would  be  a  struggle  of  more  than  ordinary  length. 

The  orator  groaned  aloud.  "  I  won't,"  he  afifirmed 
stoutly;  "besides,  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  my 
speech — it's  foreign  to  my  line  of  thought." 

"  It  ain't  annything  o'  the  sort,"  retorted  Dinny ; 
*'  it's  a  dacent  timpcrance  dhrink — an'  ye've  got  to 
get  it  down." 

The  patient  still  protesting,  Dinny  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  coffee-pot.  "  An'  I'll  rub  ye  besides— an' 
we'll  go  for  another  walk,  mind  ye,"  he  affirmed; 
"  I'll  make  ye  sweat  if  it  takes  a  week— sure  it's  due 
to  the  public." 

Whereupon  the  orator  waded  heroically  in,  right 
in  among  the  farthest  recesses  of  the  word;  as  a 
swimmer  breasts  the  wave,  he  confronted  the  en- 
tangling task.     After  backing  up  several  times  and 


HOU^  DIMNY  COACHED  The  ORATOR    221 


beginning  again,  he  finally  scrambled  up  the  farther 
ihore,  turning  now  to  look  triuniphaiitly  at  Dtnny. 

"  Ye  sounded  like  a  pair  o'  jjandcrs, "  said  Dinny 
sadly ;  "  sure  ye'U  have  to  do  better  than  that.  '  )iice 
more,  now — keep  yer  ton^juc  atf  ycr  teeth.  Incrc, 
that's  better;  that's  fit  for  Daniel  OConnel  himself," 
as  the  desperate  declaimcr  Hew  at  the  word  and 
floundered  through  it  n-^dm  and  again  in  a  frenzy  of 
articulation.  "  But  I  want  to  hear  some  av  yer 
speech— just  to  see  if  ye  get  the  p  ^  together,  hke. 
Go  on,  now — let  us  hear  what  >c  have  to  say  re- 
gardin'  'The  barroom  in  the  Home.'  I'll  stop  ye 
when  yc're  aff  the  track." 

After  sundry  protests  and  counter-protests  the 
orator  began.  Reluctant  at  first,  his  passion  kindled 
as  he  proccedp^  and  snon  lie  was  in  lull  sw'ig,  the 
well-worn  rhetoric  flowing  like  a  river. 

Dinny  suddenly  stopped  him  in  the  middle  of  a 
most  affecting  passage.  "  tjuinch  a  few  o'  tliose 
widows'  tears,"  he  advised  earnestly ;  "  an'  go  aisy 
on  them  broken  hearts,  an'  them  fireplaces  widout 
anny  fire,  an'  them  graves  wid  the  best  brains  av 
Canady  clothed  in  rags  in  them,  an'  the  fair  youth  o' 
the  land  wid  a  breath  on  them  like  a  distillery — leave 
a  lot  o'  them  out,  I  tell  ye." 

"What  for?"  inquired  the  reformer,  seizing  the 
opportunity  to  recover  breath. 


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222 


THE   HANDICAP 


"That    stuff's   all   right   for  ould   Ireland,"   was 
Dinny's  rejoinder,  <«  where  the  people  have  hearts  in 
them  the  size  av  a  turnip_but  it  isn't  anny  good  wid 
a  lot  o'  Scotch.     Here's  the  way  to  go  at  a  crowd  av 
Scotchmen,  if  ye  want  to  make  'em  cry.     I'll  show 
ye— watch  me.     «  Ladies  an"  gintlemen,'  "  Dinny  de- 
claimed, striking  a  truly  oratorical  attitude,  "  '  what's 
the  cause  av  the  dhrink  bill  av  our  country  ?     Sure  it's 
of  a  double  charackter.     First,  a   desire  for  strong 
dhrink ;  second,  a  desire  for  more     That's  the  reason, 
ladies  an'  gintlemen,  we  spend  five  hundred  miUion 
dollars  in  whiskey  every  year.     An'  then  we  don't 
get  our  money's  worth,  ladies  an'  gintlemen.     The 
adultheration  av  honest  liquors  is  a  disgrace  to  the 
memory  av  our  forefathers— an'  it  costs  us  like  the 
divil  into  the  bargain.     Sure  there  was  a  toime  when 
ye   got  it  pure  an'  sparklin'  for  twinty-fivc  cents  a 
gallon— now   it's  siventy-five,  an'  half  the  men  that 
sells   it  slips  a  pint  o'  watter  into  it  unbeknownst  to 
us.  an'  then  works  short  change  on  us  besides.     Look 
at  the  cost  av  it !     Fifty  million  dollars  last  year  for 
workhouses  an'  hospitals  ;  sixty  million  dollars  this 
year  for  jails  an'  pinitentiaries  ;  siventy  million  dollars 
next  year  for  lunattic  asylums-an'  who   pays  the 
shot,  ladies   an'  gintlemen.   but   honest    Scotchmen 
hke  yerselves  whose  fathers  an'  grandfathers  died  for 
the  faith  o'  their  ancestors  that  died  and  left  all  they 


"^^^ 


Tp^' 


HOIV  DINNY  COACHED  The  ORATOR:    22y 
had  to  yez  ?     For  their  sakes,  ladies  an'  gintlemen.  I 
ax  ye  to  vote  to  quinch  the  stream  av  blood  an"  rags 
thit  flows  down  our  streets  an'  dhrowns  widows  an' 
or^.hans    wid    ,ts   gory   hand-an'   also,   ladies   an- 
gintlemen.  because  it's  cheaper !     I  appeal  lo  vcz  in 
the   sacred    name    av    Expinse.' "      Dinny    paused 
partially  exhausted.     -  Thafs  the    way  to    talk    to' 
Scotchmen."  he  concluded,  puffing  slightly  from  the 
recent  effort,  "  \i  ye  want  to  make  them  cry.     Sure  I 
know  the  craturs.  " 

Mr.    Milliard    gazed   in   amazement.     "I'll   think 
about  it."  he  said  after  a  moment,  seeing  that  Dinny 
expected  some  reply-.,  if  you'll  only  let  me  lie  down 
a  while."  glancing  tenderly  towards  his  bed;  «  I  want 
to  collect  my  thoughts  for  the  lecture." 
"  They're  disturbed,  hke  ?"  suggested  Dinny. 
"  Besides."  the  lecturer  went  on.  paying  no  atten- 
tion to  the  unseemly  levity.  .« if  you'll  only  let  me  lie 
down.   1 11   tell  you  something  interesting   I   found 

out  about  your   friend-that   farmer  friend   of  yours 
— to-day." 

"  D'ye  mean  Arthur  Ainslie  ?  " 

"  No  one  else  Sit  down  a  minute-there,  on  the 
foot  of  the  bed-till  I  tell  you  something  I've  found 
out.  The  orator,  meantime,  had  assumed  a  hori- 
zontal  attitude  on  the  selfsame  bed. 

Dinny   obeyed,  his   curiosity   decidedly   aroused. 


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224 


THE   HANDICAP 


"  I've  seen  that  woman  before,"  Mr.  Hilliard  began 
abruptly. 

"  What  woman  ?  "  asked  Dinny. 

"  His  niece — Mr.  Ainslie's  niece.  Miss  Menzies, 
you  know.  And  I  saw  that  boy  of  hers  too — and  / 
^nozu  ivho  his  father  is." 

Dinny  was  standing  now,  and  closer  to  the  head 
of  the  bed.  And  thus,  looking  down  into  his  in- 
formant's face,  he  heard  the  whole  story  of  all  that 
had  been  disclosed  that  day.  Very  white  he  was,  as 
the  narrative  drew  near  its  close,  dealing  as  it  did 
with  the  financial  embarrassment  of  his  old  and  tried 
friend,  Arthur  Ainslie,  and  with  his  obligation  to  the 
man  McLarty,  of  Hastie's  Mills. 

"  An'  so  the  old  man  is  afraid  this  buzzard — this 
McLarty  man— is  goin*  to  turn  him  off  his  farm,  out 
on  the  road,  is  he  ?  "  Dinny's  lips  fixed  and  pale, 
"to  eat  grass,  I  dunno?  The  low-lived  bird  o' 
prey ! "  Dinny  went  on,  his  wrath  deepening, 
"  schemin'  till  he  got  my  old  friend  in  his  clutches — 
it's  damned  I'll  be  if  he  manages  his  dirty  trick. 
He'll  take  the  shirt  aff  my  back  afore  he'll  ruin 
Arthur  Ainslie,"  he  muttered  savagely ;  "  it's  my- 
self'11  find  out  all  about  this  dirty  business — an'  it's 
myself  that'll  do  somethin' — if  it  takes  ivery  cint 
I've  got,"  shaking  his  head  in  the  intensity  of  his 
purpose. 


m^w 


■.flr^'.  w:^ 


HOiy  DINNY  COACHED  -The  ORATOR    22; 

Mr.  Hilliard  nodded,  drowsily.  The  horizontal 
attitude  pleased  him  well— and  coffee,  even  by  the 
tankful,  was  but  a  feeble  stiraulant  to  him. 

Dinny  turned  away.  ••  Ye  can  go  to  sleep  if  ye 
want  to,"  he  said  under  his  breath,  hia  eye  gleaming 
from  the  inward  fire,  "but  I  won't— by  God,  I 
won't,"  he  added  solemnly.  "  You  wait  an'  see  if  I 
do."  as  he  turned  towards  the  stair,  muttering  as  he 
went,  and  pausing  midway  to  conduct  a  colloquy 
with  some  unseen  antagonist.  "  As  dacent  a  man  as 
iver  drew  the  breath  o'  life  !-a  man  that's  befrinded 
me  manny's  the  time— an'  ye'd  turn  him  out  to 
starve,  would  ye,  ye  vulture,  ye  ?  "  as  he  went  on  his 
way  still  conducting  tlie  muffled  dialogue. 


4 


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XIV 
MUSIC  HATH  CHARMSS0ME7IMES 

HE    had   just  gained   the   hall  below  when 
Nora  came  out  to  him  through  "^^he  swing- 
ing   door  that  led  into   the    kitchen,  her 
cheeks  rosy  from  her  labours.     "  Father,"  she  began, 
"  was  it  you  that   locked  the  sitting-room  door  ?— I 
can't  get  in." 

•'  Yes,  my  darlint,"  he  answered,  the  cloud  lifting 
from  his  face  for  the  moment.  "  I've  got  somethin' 
in  there  I  want  to  show  ye.  What  in  thunder's 
makin'  such  a  row  ?  "  he  suddenly  inquired,  moving 
towards  the  door,  the  sound  coming  from  somewhere 
up  the  street. 

Nora  was  close  at  his  elbow.  "  I  know,"  she  said, 
a  decidedly  plaintive  note  in  her  voice  ;  "  see,  there 
they  are— it's  the  men  from  Ackland's  foundry—or 
the  most  of  them,  at  least.  This  is  pay-day,  you 
know— to-day's  the  second  Tuesday  of  the  month— 
and  they're  coming  here,"  her  voice  dropping  almost 
to  a  whisper.  ••  Look,  that's  Jim  Forest,  that  one 
in  front,  with  the  red  shirt  sleeves,  carrying  his  coat 
over  his  arm.  And  his  two  children  are  sick  at 
home—some  low  fever.     Dr.  Leitch  told  me  about 

225 


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MUSIC  HATH  CHARMS~SOmTlMES22n 
it  himself,"  and,  w.th  one  appealing  glance  at  her 
father,  followed  by  a  deep-drawn  sigh,  she  turned 
and  went  back  into  the  house. 

The  struggle  in  Dinny's  mind-or  somewhere  in 
that  inner  region  where  mind  and  conscience  meet- 
was    brief  and   violent.     Suddenly   his   resolve  was 
taken  ;  and,  gliding  along  the  narrow  verandah,  he 
fell  to  with  lightning  speed  upon  the  wooden  shut- 
ters beside  the  window-the  genial  and  capacious 
window   of    the    barroom  -with    the   result   that  a 
minute  or  two  later  saw  them  up  and  tightly  barri- 
caded, grimly  frowni..g    as  only  the  old-fashioned 
shutters   can.     Then   he   shot   in  through  the   still 
half-open   door,  slammed  it  shut  behind  him.  and 
turned  the  key  in  the  lock. 

Waiting,  and  commanding  such  a  view  as  the  key- 
ho.e  would  permit.  Dinny  soon  had  abundant  evi- 
dence of  the  dismay  his  action  had  occasioned  in  the 
bosoms,   parched   and   dry.  of  Jim  Forest  and  his 
toon  companions.     Right  earnest  were  the  efforts 
they  made  to  gain  admission  by  the  door,  so  soon  as 
they  had  recovered  from  the  shock  of  the  shrouded 
windows.      Knocking,    thumping,    rattling   of    the 
knob,  finally  gave  way  to  sundry  resounding  kicks 
Ihese   unavailing.  Jim.  in   his   capacity  of   leader 
began  a  series  of  hoarse  appeals  through  the  key- 
hole to  such  ears  as  a  kind  providence  might  pes- 


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THE   HANDICAP 


I. 


sibly  provide  within.     The  voice  that  uttered  them 
was  eloquent  with  the  pain  of  great  necessity. 

Dinny  at  length  responded,  dropping  on  one  knee 
to  adjust  his  hps  to  the  narrow  opening.  "  It  isn't 
anny  use,  boys,"  he  announced  in  a  stentorian 
whisper  that  made  Jim  start  back  in  tlie  interests 
of  his  aural  organ ;  "  I  niver  do  business  on  Sunday — 
yez  better  go  home." 

"  It  ain't  Sunday,"  roared  Jim ;  "  it's  Tuesday, 
Dinn> — it's  the  second  Tuesday.  Let  us  in,  Dinny 
— it's  pay-day,  and  we've  all  got  a  wad  as  big  as 
yer  head." 

"  Well,  now,  that's  funny,"  returned  Dinny  reflect- 
ively from  within.  "  I  must  'a'  got  mixed  on  the 
days — Sandy  Waldie  got  a  five  cent  piece  changed 
into  coppers  here  last  night,  so  I  thought  the  next 
day  was  the  Sabbath.  Well,  annyhow,  it's  the  six- 
teenth o'  the  month — an'  that's  an  annivarsary.  It's 
just  thirty  year  to-day  since  the  potaty  crop  failed 
in  Ireland — an'  I  always  keep  it  as  a  day  o'  mournin', 
like;  sure  my  aunt's  grandmother  starved  to  death 
that  day — an'  I'm  obsarvin'  it  like  a  dacent  man 
ought  to,"  concluded  Dinny,  a  fine  melancholy  in 
his  tone. 

"Go  to  blazes,"  roared  Jim,  with  a  violent  kick ; 
other  voices  joined  his  own  and  the  protest  became 
vigorous  and  prolonged. 


I 

I 

i 


*.: 


MUSIC  HATH  CHARMSSOMEJIMES  22^ 
"  Go  on  wid  yez."  retorted  Dinny.  -  go  on  down 
to    Jock    Taylor's   at  -The    Queen's   Arm. '-sure 
his  aunt  niver  had  a  grandmother.     If  ycVe  dry- 
he'll  soak  yc,  he'll  soak  yez  good,"  Dinny  repeated 
with  a  smile  almost  as  broad  as  tl.-^  door  itself     •.  An'' 
annyhou-,  boys."  he  went  on  confidentiallv,  "  there's 
another   reason;   it's  n,y   birthday-r,n  tuinty-two 
to-day-an-  it's   the  b.rthday  av  one  o'  the    Riyal 
Princesses,   in    Roosia.  I    think-but    she's   a   nli- 
t.ve   av  Queen  V.ctorey-I  seen  it  in  the  almanac 
-an    me   an'  her   promised   one  another,   afore   I 
left  ould  Ireland,  that  we'd  always  keep  one  another's 
birthday  sacred,  like.     She  always  spinds  the  day 
fastm'.  an'  polishin'  up  her  crown.     So  I've  got  to 
keep   faith   wid  her.  boys-yez  wouldn't  have   me 
break  my  word  wid  the  quality,  would  yez,  boys? 
So  yez  better  go  on.     I  want  yez  all  to  go  an'  hear 
Mr.  Hdliard  to-night-he's  goin'  to  jaw  the  natives 
on'lhe  Barroom  in  the  Home '-an' I've  got  him 
all  fixed  up  like  a  fightin'  cock,  an'  me  an'  him's  just 
alter  gom'  over  his  speech  together.     So  take  ycr 
wad  home  wid   yez,  boys,  an'  give  it  to  the  wife- 
good-bye  ;  I've  got  to  go  an'  write  to  the  Princess- 
haven't   nmsed   for  thirty  year."    with  which,   and 
other  tender  words  of    farewell,  mine   host   Dinny 
could    be    heard    striding   rapidly   along    the    hall 
towards   the   *-     '      '    • 


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jected  throng  reformed  in  sorrowful   procession  and 
resumed  their  homeward  way. 

"  Nora !  oh,  Nora,  come  here,"  sang  out  Dinny  as 
he  came  near  the  kitchen  door,  at  die  same  time  ex- 
tracting a  key  from  his  pocket.  ••  Come,  an'  I'll 
show  ye  what  I've  got  for  ye  in  the  sittin'-room." 

Nora  was  not  long  in  obeying;  and  a  moment 
later  Dinny  was  standing  with  the  door  opened  an 
inch  or  two,  just  enough  to  permit  a  glimpse  into 
the  room  where  the  surprise  awaited  her. 

"  Guess,  Nora,"  he  said  tantalizingly ;  '«  guess  what 
yer  daddy's  got  for  ye  ?  " 

"  I  can't,"  said  the  impatient  Nora,  pressing  the 
door  a  little  wider  open. 

"  There,  then— look  ye  there,"  cried  Dinny,  fling- 
ing the  door  back  with  becoming  abandonment; 
"  see,  that's  what  I  bought  ye — an'  it's  yer  own — it's 
all  yer  own  !  " 

"Oh,  father ! "  the  girl  almost  scream*  d  in  de- 
light, rushing  forw^ard  ;  "  oh,  father,  this  is  too  much 
— too  good  of  you — but  it's  what  I've  longed  for, 
and  dreamed  about,  for  years.  A  piano,  father! 
something  I  never  thought  I'd  own — oh,  if  you're 
not  the  dearest  thing !  "  as  she  turned  and  threw  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  still  bearing  him  on  towards 
the  shining  treasure  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
"  It  was  what  ye  said  to  mc  tkat  day"  Dinny  began, 


:  I 


MUSIC  HA7H  CHARMS ^SOMFTMES  2ti 
with   evident   embarrassment— "  about— you   know, 
about  us  kcepin'  a  tavern,      ^'e  was  do'.vu  in  tiie' 
mouth   then,   ^vasn't  ye.   girl?     Vnit  je'vc  been  so 
good— an'  I  knew  this'd  fix  ev.rytliiir  up  all  ri-lit— 
it'll  drive  away  the  clouds  an'  the  blues,  my  darlint. 
Ye  can  come  in  here,  when  ye  get  sad  an  lonely 
hke,  an'   play  'Kathleen    Mavourneen,'   an'   -The 
Harp  That  Once.'  an'  all  the  purty  tunes  av  ould 
Ireland.     Och,  sure,  there's  nothin'  to  cheer  ye  up 
hke  a  pianny— an'  there  isn't  a  better  one  in  the 
town.     I  asked  Molly  Murphy  to  come  in  this  even- 
in'  an'  give  us  some  music—we'll  be  all  alone,  after 
Mr.   Milliard    goes   to   his   meetin'.    An'   don't  ye 
think  ye'll  be  happy  now.  Nora  ?"  he  asked  solicit- 
ously,  trying    to    lift    her    head    gently  from   his 
shoulder. 

They  were  on  the  piano  stool  by  this  time 
Dinny,  and  not  the  girl,  was  seated  on  it.  her  arms 
still  about  his  neck,  her  face  hidden.  But.  to  his 
consternation  and  amazement,  she  did  not  lift  her 
face  nor  ofTer  any  answer  to  his  words.  Gently  he 
disentwined  her  arms,  wondering  what  could  be  the 
matter,  his  wonder  turning  to  dismay  as  he  suddenly 
felt  that  the  girl  was  sobbing  in  his  embrace. 

"  What's  the  matter?"  he  asked  excitedly  ;  "  isn't 
this  what  ye've  been  wantin'  ?_tell  yer  father  what's 
the  matter." 


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Then  her  voice  came,  thick  with  sobs.  "  Oh, 
father,"  she  began,  "  what  made  you  speak  of  that  / 
—about  the  tavern.  I  mean,  and  our  business  here  ? 
I  was  Iiappy  till  you  spoke  of  that— Zind  surely  you 
don't  think,  father,  surely  you  dun't  think  that  this— 
this,  that  you've  given  me— that  it  can  make  any 
difference?  I'd  sooner  not  have  any,  father — nor 
anything  else — I'd  sooner  be  ever  so  poor,"  she  went 
on  amid  a  storm  of  tears,  <•  and  be  happy — and  make 
others  happy.  But  we're  making  the  miserable, 
father— lots  of  them— with  this  business  of,  of  ours— 
that's  our  lifework,"  and  again  the  tear-stained  face 
hid  itself  on  her  father's  shoulder,  the  sobs  coming 
quicker  than  before. 

Poor  Dinny  stood  like  one  in  a  dream,  his  arm 
about  the  clinging  form.  He  swallowed  once  or 
twice,  in  a  despairing  kind  of  way,  still  toying  with 
the  straying  strands  of  the  dark  brown  tresses,  every 
hair  dear  to  his  inmost  heart.  Aimlessly  the  fingers 
of  his  free  hand  began  idly  roving  about  the  keys  of 
the  instrument  beside  him,  the  notes  coming  with  a 
hollow  and  lonely  sound. 

"  It's  got  an  awful  purty  tone,"  he  said  pathetically, 
strumming  on. 

No  answer  came.  '<  An*  it's  all  paid  for,"  he  added 
a  moment  later,  still  peering  wistfully  for  the  hidden 
face. 


■^  'ftT'. 


ts 


MUSIC  HATH  CHARMS-SOSU-TIMFS  211 

Suddenly  Nora  looked  up.  "  Mow  many  of  those 
men,  father,  that  have  just  ^'onc  away — how  many  of 
them  do  you  think  have  pianos,  or  anything,'  else  that 
makes  Ufe  happy?"  she  asked  with  trembhng  Hps, 
the  face  disappcarinj;  again  to  its  hiding  place. 

Dinny's  answer  leaped  to  his  tongue.  "  An'  sure," 
he  answered  hurriedly,  as  if  certain  o\  solid  ground, 
"  didn't  I  lock  the  door  on  them — di\'  tell  them  to  be 
gone  wid  them,  an'  take  their  money  to  the  missus 
at  home  ?  "  the  question  coming  with  pathetic  exulta- 
tion as  he  paused  for  a  reply. 

Nora's  arms  held  hjm  tight,  as  in  a  vise.     '<  Yes," 
sh-  murmured.  "  oh,  yes— and  I  loved  you  for  it. 
Both  of  Jim  Forest's  ch.ldren  are  so  sick.     And  oh, 
father,"  springing  to  her  feet  in  her  eagerness,  her 
face  all  radiant  now  as  she  looked  with  infinite  ap- 
peal and  yearning  into  her  father's  eves,  her  voice 
swelling  like  a  trumpet,  "  let  us  hep  it ..  ...ed,  father, 
—and  the  shutters  up—tight,  tight,  tight,"  her  hands 
clasped  as  she  stood  before  him,  as  eloquent  a  figure 
as  ever  pleaded  cause  before  its  king  ;  "  let  us  keep 
it  tight,  father,  so  those  poor  men  will  never  get  in 
any  more— never,  never,  as  long  as  we  Hve,"  she  re- 
peated, tlie  tone  touched  with  a  kind  of  rapture  at 
the  thought. 

Dinny  gazed  at  her  in  wonder,  sorrow  brooding 
like  a  cloud  upon  his  face.     "  Ye  don't  know  what 


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ye're  sayin',  child."  he  answered  dreamily,  still  star- 
iiii.  at  his   daughter  ;  ••  there  wouldn't  be  annytliing 
left    for  us  but  the  street— who's  tlw.t  comin' ?"  he 
suddenly  demanded,  evidently  relieved  at  the  inter- 
ruption.    "  Oh.  it's  Hilliard—hes  ^;oin'  to  his  lecture 
on    'The    Harroom    in  the  Home,'"  a  pitiful  little 
laugh  breaking  from  his  lips;  •■  Ml  have  to  let  him 
out— so  ye  see  we've  got  to  unlock  the  door  already, 
my  darlint,"  trying  hard  to  smile  as  he  gently  re- 
leased himself  from  her  arms  and  started  out  to  the 
hall.    "  Women's  all  alike,"  he  mused  to  himself  as 
he  made  his  way  along  the  darkening  corridor  to  the 
door ;  •'  only   Nora's   a  little   more  so—that's   her 
mother  in  her."  as  he  turned  the  lock  and  discharged 
the  convalescent  orator  on  his  mission  of  mercy  to 
mankind. 


XV 

AN   ELDER    UNORDAINED 

BY  dint  of  patient  research,  and  with  consider- 
able of  kindly  guile,  Uinny  had  at  last  made 
himself  familiar  with  the  details  of  Arthur 
Ainslie's  financial  troubles— and  of  the  swift  catas- 
trophe that  was  about  to  befall  him.     And,  spurred 
by  the  memory  of  long  years  of  friendship,  animated 
by  the  altogether  noble  impulse  of  hi^  Irish  heart,  he 
had,  in  the  fullness  of  his  sacrifice,  armed  himself  for 
the  hour  when  he  should  confront  the  grim  creditor 
and  deliver  his  friend  in  the  sore  hour  of  his  need. 
What  this  meant  to  Dinny,  few  could  tell— for  his 
little  Savings  were  the  hope  of  his  future ;  and  The 
Buck  Tavern,  his  chief  possession,  was  precious  in 
his  eyes.     Hut  Dinny  had  never  flinched— and.  as  a 
consequence,  this  bright  summer  day  found  him  all 
ready  to  start  forth  for  Hastie's  Mills. 

There  was  great  consternation,  that  selfsame  sum- 
mer day,  in  the  little  sitting-room  of  the  only  inn  that 
dispensed  the  public  hospitalities  of  the  aforesaid 
Hastie's  Mills.  That  luimble  caravansary  had  been 
thrown  into  sudden  tumult  by  the  sickness  and  sud- 
den collapse  of  its  only  guest.     An  aged  man  he  was, 

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unmistakably  a  Scotchman,  who  had  driven  into  the 
quiet  hamlet  that  very  afternoon  and  silently  repaired 
to  the  sleepy  inn,  stabling  his  own  horse  without  aid 
from  anybody,  after  which  he  had  entered  the  httle 
tavern  and  humbly  asked  for  shelter.  Even  to  the 
ordinary  eye,  the  sickness  that  had  suddenly  over- 
taken him  was  pronounced  and  unmistakable.  A 
deathlike  pallor  was  on  his  face  and  his  step  was  tot- 
tering and  unsteady. 

"  Cud  ye  gi'e  me  a  couch  to  lie  doon  on  ?  "  he  be- 
gan faintly.  "  This  cam'  on  me  aboot  an  hour  ago 
— no,  I'll  no'  need  a  bed ;  I'm  gaein'  back  hame  the 
nicht,  to  Glen  Ridge,"  as  the  kind-hearted  landlady, 
noting  his  evident  weakness,  offered  to  show  him  to 
a  room.  "  I  ha'e  a  wee  bit  business  to  attend  to — 
an'  it  canna'  wait,"  the  shade  of  anxiety  deepening 
on  his  face  again.  "  It's  wi'  a  man  they  ca'  McLarty 
— nae  doot  ye  ken  him  yirsel'." 

The  woman  nodded.  "  Yes,  I  know  him,"  she 
said  ;  "  there  are  few  that  don't,  around  here— most 
of  them  sorry  for  it,"  and  a  rather  ominous  smile  ac- 
companied the  words ;  "  are  you  going  right  up  to 
see  him,  sir?  He  lives  at  the  other  end  of  the 
village— but    I'm   afraid,   sir,  you're    hardly   strong 

enough  to " 

Before  her  sentence  was  finished  the  truth  of  her 
words  was  attested  by  a  half-reeling  motion  on  the 


^«    ELDER    UNORDAINED       2)^ 

part  of  Arthur  Ainslie— for  the  traveller  was  none 
other— as    he   tried  to  grope  his  way  towards  the 
broad  sofa  on  the  other  side  of  the  room.     Me  was 
all  but  unconscious  as  the  startled  woman  caught 
him  in  her  arms  ;  and  it  was  with  the  greatest  diffi- 
culty that  she  guided  the  fainting  man  to  the  couch. 
Hurrying  forth,  she  returned  in  a  moment  with  some 
cordial  that  was  soon  forced  between  the  bloodless 
lips ;    hurriedly   despatching    a    messenger   for   the 
village  doctor,  she  knelt  and  chafed  his  hands,  peer- 
ing into  his  face  for  signs  of  returning  consciousness. 
The  friendly  draught  slowly  stirred  the  enfeebled 
heart.     But  the  stroke,  if  such  it  was,  seemed  to  have 
clouded  his  intellect ;  and  dark  perplexity  stood  upon 
the  woman's  brow  a  half  hour  later  as  she  listened, 
breathless,  to  the  incoherent  murmurings  from  the 
stranger's  lips. 

"  Ye'll  hae  to  gi'e  me  a  wee  bit  mair  time,"  he  was 

muttering,  his   eyes   still  closed ;    ••  an'   I'll  try  an' 

raise  the  money  some  ither  place.     Ye  winna'  turn 

an  auld  man  oot  o'  hoose  an'  hame  to  die  ?  "  he  went 

on  pitifully.     ..  Get  up  there,  Bess,  go  alang  wi'  ye, 

my   lass— or  we'll  be  ower  late— it's  near  the  fore- 

closm'  time."  tugging  gently  at  imaginary  reins  as 

though  trying  to  hurry  his  horse;  "I  didna'  ken, 

sir,"  the  voice  rising  high,  "  wha  ye  are— or  I'd  no' 

be  here  this  day,"  grim  sternness  written  all  over  the 


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unconscious  face.  "  But  if  ye'll  gi'e  me  time— if 
ye'U  bide  a  wee,  sir,  I'll  dae  wy  best  to  raise  the 
money,  every  penny  o'  't,"  the  voice  dying  away  to 
a  plaintive  whisper. 

The  doctor  was  on  hand  a  few  minutes  later.  "  It's 
a  complete  collapse,"  he  said,  after  various  examina- 
tions; "seems  hke  a  man  who  has  been  carrying 
some  heavy  burden  ;  evidences  of  strain,  probably  of 
shock — I'm  inclined  to  think  it's  some  kind  of 
stroke.  No,  I  hardly  think  he  will—afraid  of  it  at 
least— not  at  all  likely,  at  his  age,"  this  last  in  re- 
sponse to  the  solicitous  inquiry  on  the  part  of  the 
landlady  as  to  the  prospect  of  recovery.  "  The  whole 
thing  might  end  very  suddenly — or  it  might  not. 
However,  the  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  get  him  to 
bed — it's  more  than  likely  he'll  rally  enough  to  tell  us 
who  he  is." 

They  were  just  proceeding  to  carry  this  advice 
into  effect  when  suddenly  both  became  aware  that 
the  door  of  the  sitting-room  had  been  opened ;  and 
turning,  they  were  confronted  by  the  form  and  face 
of  a  stranger.  Surprise  looked  from  his  eyes,  but  his 
gaze  scarcely  returned  their  own,  fixed  as  it  was  on 
the  prostrate  man  upon  the  couch.  Without  word  of 
greeting  or  apology,  as  if  unconscious  of  their  pres- 
ence, he  came  swiftly  over,  almo^  t  elbowing  them 
aside  as  he  knelt  beside  the  stricken  man. 


An    ELDER    UhlORDAlNED       239 

He  called  his  name.  "  Mr.  Ainslie,"  he  said,  his 
hps  close  to  the  old  man's  ear,  "  don't  ye  know  nie  ? 
It's  me,  Mr.  Ainslie—it's  Dinny,  Dinny  Riley— an' 
I've  come  to  help  ye.  Don't  ye  know  me— won't 
ye  speak  to  me  ?  "  the  mobile  lips  quivering  as  he 
waited,  peering  into  the  withered  face. 

The  semi-delirious  man  opened  his  eyes,  doubtless 
aroused  by  the  familiar  voice,  and  fixed  them  on  the 
newcomer.  A  light  of  joyous  welcome  flashed  from 
them  as  he  recognized  his  old-time  friend,  trying  piti- 
fully to  extend  a  trembhng  hand  in  greeting. 

••  What  brocht  ye  here  ?  "  he  inquired  faintly  ;  "  I 
thocht  ye'd  be  at  hame." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Dinny,  nonplussed  just  for  the  mo- 
ment. "  Oh !  yes,  I  came  over  to — to  buy  a  dog  for 
a  man,"  he  answered  after  a  moment's  fumbling. 
And  the  Recording  Angel  took  up  his  pen,  then 
laid  it  down,  rejoicing  secretly  that  he  had  stayed 
his  hand. 

"  I  canna'  gang,"  the  old  man  said  after  a  pause, 
looking  up  pitifully  into  Dinny's  face ;  "  I'm  ovver 
weak— an'  I  canna'  gang." 

"Where  is  it  ye  can't  go?"  Dinny  answered— 
though  he  knew. 

"  To  yon  man's— ye  ken  wha  I  mean  ;  to  Mc- 
Larty's.  I  cam'  to  plead  wi'  him,  Dinny,"  the 
plaintive  voice  went  on ;  "  for  we  haena'  lang.     The 


4| 


!-•■ 

M 


:IHI 


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I  s 


^1 


mortgage     comes    due—I'll    show    ye    when this 

screed'U  tell  ye.  I  had  it  frae  his  lawyer,  ye  ken— 
an'  ye'U  see  it'll  no'  be  lang  till  he  turns  us  oot  o'  house 
an'  hanie.  Oh,  I'm  wae  to  think  on't,"  and  the  old 
man  covered  his  face  witli  his  hands  in  an  agony  of 
grief. 

Dinny  glanced  at  the  stern  legal  notice.  Yes,  the 
old  man  was  right;  the  time  indeed  was  short — but 
this  war-  no  news  to  the  loving  Irish  heart,  as  has 
been  already  indicated.  For  he  had,  with  secret 
guile,  found  out  all  about  this  before  he  had  raised 
the  last  dollar  that  could  be  obtained,  both  on  his 
personal  credit  and  on  the  security  of  his  wn  httle 
property  at  home ;  and,  ready  now  to  do  battle  with 
the  stern  creditor,  he  had  started  on  his  eager 
journey  to  Hastie's  Mills. 

He  handed  the  note  back  to  the  prostrate  man. 
"  An'  div  ye  think,"  Arthur  Ainshe  began  timidly 
"  div  ye  think  ye  cud  help  me,  Dinny— ye  wadna' 
gang  yirsel',  wad  ye?  "  he  suddenly  gathered  courage 
to  say,  the  wistful  eyes  turning  to  look  with  infinite 
appeal  up  to  the  bended  face  of  the  other.  •'  If  ye 
think  ye  cud  gang  yirsel'— an'  plead  wi'  him,  like— 
an'  mebbe  ye  cud  get  him  to  gi'e  us  a  wee  bit  mair 
time?  It'll  no'  be  lang,  I'm  thinkin',  that  I'll  be 
needin'  it— an'  mebbe,  in  the  meantime,  the  guid 
hand  o'  th'  Ahnichty  micht  open  up  the  way.     But 


An    ELDER    UNORDAINED        241 

1   canna'  gang   mysel'— -I   canna'  gang,"  the  voice 
coming  fainter  as  the  effort  overtaxed  his  strength. 

Dinny's  face  Hghted  with  a  sudden  gleam  of  joy. 
The  way,  that  had  seemed  shut  against  liim  when  first 
he  learned  of  Arthur  Ainslie's  presence  in  the  inn, 
now  seemed  to  be  broad  and  clear. 

"  Yes,  I'll  go,"  he  said  hurriedly,  excitedly,  already 
rising.  "  Yes,  I'll  go— an'  perhaps  I  won't  be  able— 
but  I'll  do  my  best,  annyway." 

••  But  I  dinna'  want,"  the  old  man  began  apologet- 
ically, "  I  dinna'  want  to  keep  ye  frae  yir  ain  busi- 
ness—aboot  the  dog,  ye  ken  ?  "  lifting  his  hand  in 
feeble  remonstrance. 

"  Och,  that's  all  right,"  was  Dinny's  ready  answer ; 
"  I  bought  it  afore  I  came  in— it's  a  yaller  dog,  an* 
it  hasn't  anny  tail— an'  it's  outside  now,  tied  unner 
the  buggy.  So  I'll  go— I'll  go  right  now,  an'  see 
this  here  •  McParty  '  man  ;  an'  I'll  have  it  out  wid 
him,  mind  ye,  or  my  name  isn't  Dinny  Riley,"  with 
which,  seizing  his  hat,  he  made  a  swift  and  eager 
departure. 

Less  than  an  hour  later  he  was  descending  the 
steps  of  a  rather  imposing  residence ;  a  paper— with 
something  written  on  it— was  clutched  tightly  in  his 
hand,  and  a  look  of  infinite  satisfaction  was  on  the 
kindly  face.  Suddenly  he  stopped,  paused  a  minute 
or  two  as  if  in  deep  reflection,  then  turned  and  went 


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back  to  the  house  he  had  just  left.  Once  again  he 
rang  the  bell,  answered  a  moment  later  by  a  man  of 
hard  and  forbidding  visage,  scowling  slightly  as  he 
recognized  his  caller  of  a  few  minutes  before. 

"  Say,"  Dinny  began,  in  his  most  conciliatory  tone, 
"  there's  wan  thing  1  want  ye  to  do  for  me.  Ye've 
got  yer  money  al .  right,  haven't  ye,  now  ?  " 

The  man  nodded  sulkily. 

"  An'  it's  a  marked  check  I  gave  ye,  wasn't  it — 
wid  the  image  an'  subscription  av  Caesar  on  it  ? 
An'  I've  got  yours  for  the  balance — for  what's 
comin'  to  me,  after  ye  get  yer  own  ?  " 

Again  the  man  nodded  moodily. 

"  Well,  I  want  ye  to  promise  ye  won't  tell  who 
done  it — an'  I  want  ye  to  say  ye've  promised.  An' 
I'll  promise  too." 

"What  for?"  the  erstwhile  creditor  asked  in  a 
surly  tone. 

"  That  isn't  anny  matter,"  returned  Dinny ;  "  only 
I  want  ye  to  promise  me — sure  it  isn't  much  I'm 
axin'." 

"They'll  find  out  anyhow,"  retorted  the  other; 
"sooner  or  later— some  one  might  see  the  check," 
and  the  thin  lips  and  set  teeth  told  the  story  of  a 
relentless  man  of  business— and  of  much  more  beside, 
by  no  means  unknown  to  Dinny. 

"  If  it's  later,  it  won't  make  anny  difference— not 


/In  ELDER  UNORDA/NED  243 
to  f/ij'  party,"  Diany  added  mournfully.  "  There 
won't  df  aiiny  later  for  him,  I'm  thinkin'—an'  sure 
it'll  be  a  good  turn  ye'U  be  after  doin'  me,  sir,  if  ye'U 
only  promise." 

With  a  churlish  oath  the  man  gave  the  assurance 
—then  slammed  the  door  and  went  back  into  the 
house. 

Dinny  made  his  way  as  speedily  as  he  could  back 
to  the  inn.     A  secret  sense  of  fear,  an  intuitive  mis- 
giving lest  he  should  be  too  late,  lent  wings  to  his 
feet.     And    it  was  well   that  he  hurried  as  he  did. 
For  just  as  he  came  up  to  the  door  from  which  he 
had  departed    less  than  an  hour  before,  the  doctor, 
emerging,  met    him ;  and  one  glance  at  the  physi- 
cian's face  prepared  him  for  the  words  that  followed. 
"  Nearly  all  over,"  the  doctor  said  in  a  voice  not 
entirely  professional;  "  he's  been  asking  for  you— 
and  if  he  has  any  affairs  to  settle,  you'd  better  get  it 
done  at  once.     Heart's  gone  all  to  pieces,"  he  added 
jerkily;  "it's  a  clear  case  of  collapse ;  partly  strain, 
partly  excitement-mostly  old  age.     Thought  it  was 
angma.  at  first-but  he  doesn't  seem  to  be  suffering 
enough   for  that.     Yes.   oh.  yes,  he's  conscious  all 
right— better  go  right  on  in,  though." 

Dinny  needed  no  second  bidding.  Swiftly,  yet 
softly,  tiptoeing  as  he  came  to  the  door  of  the  room, 
he   hurried   with   his  tidings.     As  he  entered,  one 


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quick  glance  told  him  that  this  was  the  chamber  of 
death.  Noiselessly  he  made  his  way  to  the  bed, 
knelt  beside  it,  and  took  the  old  man's  hand  in  his. 

"  I  seen  him,"  he  began  breathlessly—"  an'  I've 
got  awful  good  news  for  ye." 

The  old  man  turned  and  looked ;  the  eyes  bright- 
ened as  much  as  eyes  can  ever  brighten  when  death's 
filmy  shadow  is  darkening  them.  "  He's  gaein'  to 
gi'e  me  time  ?  "  he  asked  faintly.  "  I'll  no'  need 
lang— I'll  hae  anither  Hoose." 

"  What  did  ye  say,  Mr.  Ainslie  ?  "  Dinny  asked  in 
reverent  wonder. 

The  old  man  fixed  his  dying  eyes  upon  his  friend. 
«•  We  hae  a  buildin'  o*  God,"  he  faltered  pitifully, 
"  when  this  earthly  hoose  is  done.  An'  it'll  no'  be 
lang  till  I  hae  the  better  yin." 

With  sudden  impulse,  in  desperate  effort  to  recall 
him,  Dinny  flashed  the  mighty  news.  "  It's  yer  own 
home,"  he  cried  with  heightening  tone,  "  an'  yer  own 
farm !  It's  paid,  Mr.  Ainslie— it's  all  paid — an'  I've 
brought  ye  a  receipt  for  the  money.  It's  all  paid— 
an'  here's  the  proof  av  it,"  as  he  opened  the  paper  in 
his  hand  and  held  it  before  the  dying  eyes. 

A  flood  of  joy  suffused  the  old  man's  face.  Palsied 
by  the  touch  of  death,  he  yet  held  out  his  shaking 
hand  for  the  blessed  document;  dimly  seeing,  yet 
death  himself  yielded  to  the  stimulus  of  joy  till  the 


/In    ELDER    UNORDAINED       245 

filmy  eyes  had  seen  the  signature  alone.  The  voice 
that  spoke  now,  faint  though  it  was,  was  yet  the 
voice  of  triumph,  the  voice  of  one  from  whose  soul 
the  burden  of  years  had  rolled  away. 

"VVha  paid  it?"  he  asked  hoarsely,  the  almost 
gleaming  eyes  fixed  burningly  on  the  face  above 
him. 

"  I — I  can't  say,"  Dinny  answered  hesitatingly. 
"  McParty  said  he  promised  not  to  tell.  Yes,  that's 
what  he  said— he  said  he'd  promised  not  to  tell. 
An'  I  promised  I  wouldn't,  too,"  Dinny  added,  care- 
less of  the  contradicting  claims.  "  But  it  was  some 
one  who  heard  tell  av  yer  trouble— some  one  who 
loves  ye,  sir,"  the  words  coming  with  a  surge  of  con- 
fidence and  power  as  he  leaned  over  the  dying  man. 

Arthur  Ainslie  spent  at  least  two  or  three  minutes 
of  the  precious  few  remaining  to  him  in  loving  won- 
der, casting  about  in  his  mind  with  the  acuteness 
that  death  so  often  lends  to  those  he  is  claiming  for 
his  own. 

"  It'll  be  some  o'  the  elders,"  he  said,  when  the 
brief  pause  was  over  ;  "  'maist  naebody  else  kenned 
aboot  it— forbye  yirsel'.  It  was  yin  or  twa  o'  the 
elders,  was  it  no'  ?— tell  me,  for  I'm  gaein'  fast." 

Dinny  nodded.  "  It's  the  kind  av  a  thing  they'd 
do,"  he  said,  desperately  hoping  that  he  was  speak- 
ing as  befitted  the  presence  of  great  Death. 


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The  eyes  of  the  old  Churchman  shone  with  joy. 
"  I  kenned  it,"  he  whispered  faintly,  "  I  kenned  it 
fine — yiii  or  twa  o'  them  felt  sair  aboot  my  trouble — 
an'  yincc  they  prayed  wi'  me."  Then  the  eyes 
closed  gently  in  silent  peace;  and  the  quick  deep 
breathing  had  its  way  as  the  sands  of  life  ran  quickly 
out. 

They  were  bending  over  him,  Dinny  nearest  to 
the  snow-white  head  ;  and  the  landlady  had  already 
whispered  that  the  vital  spark  was  fled,  when  sud- 
denly the  eyes  opened  once  again — and  Dinny  bent 
low  to  catch  the  parting  words. 

"  Gi'e  my  love  to  Margaret  and  Irwin.  An'  ye'll 
tak'  the  horse  back  wi'  ye  ?  "  was  added  faintly,  the 
Scottish  instinct  stron^'  in  death — "  an'  it  was  the 
elders  ;  an'  it  shows  the  fruits  o'  believin' — it  was 
the  grace  o'  God  in  their  hearts.     WuU  ye  no'  be  a 

Cliristian  tae — wuU  ye  no'  promise  to ?  "     The 

rest  was  lost  in  silence  ;  but  the  parting  soul  still 
pleaded  through  the  fixed  and  glassy  eyes — and 
Dinny  bowed  his  head  in  reverent  assent,  staring 
long  into  the  unanswering  orbs. 


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XVI 

A  GALLANT  KNIGHT,  SIR  ARTHUR/ 

PROBABLY  it  were  quite  as  well  that  the  dead 
shoi'ld  know  nothing  as  to  what  befalls  those 
whom  they  have  left  behind.  Were  they 
permitted  to  behold  the  struggles,  to  hear  the  sighs, 
to  know  the  cares,  of  those  whom,  loving  once,  they 
still  do  love,  how  many  an  eddy  of  disquietude  would 
interrupt  the  stream  of  their  heavenly  peace. 

If  there  ever  was  a  man  fit  for  heaven,  and  ready 
to  lay  his  burden  down,  that  man  was  Arthur  Ains- 
lie.  And  yet  it  were  impossible  to  think  that  the 
joy  of  the  Yonder-land,  through  the  two  short  years 
he  had  sojourned  there,  uld  have  remained  deep 
and  full  to  his  lovincr  he?  if  he  could  have  known  at 
hc-.v  great  a  price  the  contentment  of  his  dying 
moments  had  been  purchased  by  Dinny  Riley.  In- 
deed,  could  he  have  overheard  Dinny  and  Nora  as 
they  were  talking  together  this  Saturday  night,  he 
n.ight  almost  have  resented  the  peace  that  was  his 
own  while  those  he  loved  so  well  were  still  bearing 
the  brunt  of  the  battle  he  had  left  behind. 

"  Av  coorse,"  Dinny  was  saying,  and  the  perplex- 

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ity  upon  his  face  tuld  how  often  the  matter  in  hand 
had  been  pondered,  "  I  wouldn't  have  subscribed  so 
much,  if  I'd  had  anny  idea  what  was  goin'  to  happen. 
Ye  see,  I  knew  they  needed  a  new  church — an'  I).. 
Leitch  was  terrible  anxious  for  it — an'  when  I  put 
down  my  name  for  that  hunnerd  dollars,  how  was  I 
to  know  Arthur  Ainslie  would  be  in  such  a  tight 
place  wid  his  farm'  How  was  I  to  know  I  was 
goin'  to  tie  myself  up  the  way  I  am,  to  sa\'e  Arthur 
Ainslie  from  bein'  turned  out  av  his  house  ?  " 

"  But  you'll  be  able  to  meet  it,  won't  you,  father?  " 
the  girl  asked  anxiously  ;  she  was  close  to  him,  one 
hand  resting  in  lis  own.  They  were  in  the  sitting- 
room,  and  disengaged — for  the  bar,  as  the  law  had 
demanded  from  earliest  days,  was  tight  closci'  on 
Saturday  nights. 

The  father's  brow  was  knitted  anxiously.  "  I'm 
hopin'  so,  girl,"  he  answered  after  a  pause ;  "  it'll 
pinch  me  purty  bad ;  but,  if  my  creditors  only  won't 
sell  me  out — an'  if  I  got  a  few  good  years  after  this, 
I  think  I'll  be  on  my  feet  agin  all  right.  The  place 
wouldn't  sell  .'or  much  more  tha  '^  mortgage,  I'm 
afeared— if  they  closed  on  me." 

A  shade  of  disappointment  came  over  the  lovely 
face,  and  her  voice  trembled  a  little  as  she  answered. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  good  years,'  father  ?  "  she 
said.     As  she  turned  and  looked  at  him  he  might  have 


; 


I :  I 


A  GALLANT  KNIGHT    SIR  ARTHUR.'   249 

noticed  the  Ire  of  passion  in  her  eyes,  partly  of  plead- 
ng,  partly  of  purpose. 

••  I  mean  what  I  say,"  he  answered  a  little  testily ; 

(▼oud   years    in    business,  av    ccorse — in  the   bar 
1    >,iness,  makin'  money,"  ho  went  on,  not  without 

•fiance  in   his  tone;  "  av  honest  business,  like  my 

f    licr    f.one   in  *  The    Hlack    Bull,'    in    Kilkarty— 

K-r  ..onest  tavern,  an'  Iryin'  to  get  back  some 

t  I  gave  away  so's  a  good  man  could  die  in 

p:,       an' ■' 

■'  U.j.i't,  father,  don't,"  the  girl  interrupted  almost 
sternly,  "you  know  how  it  hurts  me,"  lift  mg  one 
delicate  hand  in  protest. 

"  An'  so  his  niece,  an'  her  boy  Irwin — what's  a 
friend  o'  yours,"  with  emphasis  full  of  meaning — 
"  so's  they  couKl  have  the  deed  o'  the  place,  an'  live 
happy  an'  comfortable  in  the  old  farm,  in  the  new 
house  that  slnuldn't  ever  have  been  built.  That's 
what  I  want  to  make  a  little  money  for,  Nora — an' 
make  it  honest,  too,  mind  ye." 

By  this  time  Nora  was  on  her  feet  "  Y  u're  try- 
ing to  taunt  me,"  she  cried  hotly,  '  and  it  isn't  the 
first  time  you've  done  it — about  Irwin  Mcnzies. 
And  I  just  want  to  tell  you  that  it's  nothing  to  me 
where  he  lives — or  how  he  lives  or  whether  he  lives 
at  all  or  not.  I  haven't  seen  him,  not,"  the  crimson 
flowing  all  about  her  cheek — •'  not  for  nearly  a  week 


t  ! 

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— and  I  don't  care  anything  about  him — and  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  But  it's—it's  the  bihiness  it- 
self, father,"  she  cried  in  an  altered  voice,  the  momen- 
tary resistance  now  thrown  to  the  winds  as  she  flung 
herself  into  her  father's  arms,  pleading  with  him  in 
passionate  entreaty,  "  and  it  wouldn't  matter  how 
poor  we  were,  father,"  she  concluded  through  her 
tears,  «<  if  you'd  only  do  what  I  want  you  to — if  you'd 
only  give  it  all  up,  and  let  us  just  go  away  some- 
where, and  live  together,  and  be  happy  all  our  lives," 
He  consoled  her  as  best  he  could,  avoiding,  how- 
ever, the  matter  that  had  so  suddenly  aroused  her. 
••An'  annyhow,"  he  said  pacifically,  "it's  likely 
they'll  make  us  stop.  They'll  be  after  votin'  on  it 
now  before  very  long — an'  I  guess  they'll  put  us  out 
o'  business,  Nora,"  smiling  down  into  the  tear-stained 
face  ;  "  I  guess  they'll  pass  their  prohibition,  all  right 
— an'  sind  an  honest  man  to  jail  for  givin'  a  brother 
man  somethin'  to  quinch  his  thirst." 

"  Never,"  Nora  murmured  ;  "  it  will  never  pass 

I've  watched  every  move  of  it  ;  I  know  more  about 
it  than  you  think— and  they'll  fail.  And  anyhow.  I 
don't  want  you  to  stop  for  that— I  want  }-ou  to  stop 
for  iiu,"  and  the  sweet  face  wore  a  smile  again  as 
she  looked  up  pleadingly  at  her  father. 

"  Sometimes    I   almost   wisht    it   would — ^just    to 
skin  that   there  Jock  Taylor,  an"  put  •  The  Queen's 


'■^^ ; 


f^ 


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A  GALLAm  KNIGHT,   SIR  ARTHUR!  251 

Arms  '  out  o'  business,"  Dinny  mused  with  whimsi- 
cal fierceness.  "  But  annyhow,"  he  went  on  seriously, 
"  I'm  goin'  to  pay  that  there  money  to  the  church — 
that's  wan  thing  certain.  But  I've  got  to  go  now, 
my  dadint,"  he  suddenly  digressed,  glancing  at  the 
clock  in  the  outer  hall.  "  I  promised  Andy  Orr  to 
come  down  to-night  an'  see  his  pigs — he's  got  elivcn 
new  ones,  an'  ivery  wan  a  Scotchman — an'  I'm  goin' 
down  to  diskiver  their  blemishes,  like.  Ye  won't  be 
skeered  to  stay  alone  a  little  while,  will  ye,  j^irl  ?  " 

No,  she  was  not  afraid.  And  yet,  after  her  father 
was  gone,  why  that  strange  restlessness,  that  ebb  and 
flow  in  the  tender  cheek,  that  nervous  peering  from 
the  window  ?  She  was  not  afraid — and  yet  she  knew 
that  one  of  the  crucial  hours  of  her  life  was  near. 

Her  mind  reverted  again  and  again  to  the  impend- 
ing tragedy  that  affected  her  father's  fortunes.  It 
could  not  be  long,  she  knew,  until  the  sullen  cred- 
itor, whose  very  name  had  conic  to  be  a  kind  of  nij^ht- 
mare  with  them  both,  would  exercise  his  right  niul 
recover  the  money  Dinny  had  so  nobly  burdened 
himself  to  secure.  And  the  bitter  portent  of  tlie 
whole  situation,  so  far  as  it  concerned  herself,  was 
this— that  she  could  escape  from  it  all ;  and,  escaping, 
deliver  him  as  w?ll ;  and  this  by  a  word,  if  that  word 
she  would  only  speak.  That  was  why,  as  she  arose 
and    looked   from  the  window   into  the  gathering 


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gloom,  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  an  emotion  that 
would  not  be  controlled,  the  conflict  of  her  woman's 
heart  showing  in  her  face,  the  alternating  tides  of 
battle  evident  in  the  soulful  eyes.  For  she  knew  who 
it  was  that  would  come  that  night — the  same  who 
had  so  often  come  before,  through  those  two  long 
years  when  the  clouds  had  been  so  steadily  closing  in 
upon  them. 

He  had  come !  And  the  blmds  were  tightly 
drawn  ;  and  the  first  few  minutes  were  almost  devoid 
of  speech  as  Arthur  Dustau  sat,  gazing,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  Nora  in  that  rapt  and  almost  worshipful 
way  that  they  know  in  whose  hearts  a  purer  love  has 
slowly  grown  up — a  love,  as  was  the  case  with  him, 
that  had  gradually  supplanted  the  mere  ardent  pas- 
sion of  earlier  years. 

«'  And  I  don't  plead  for  your  answer,  Nora,  simply 
because  I  love  you  alone,"  he  went  on  in  a  low  pas- 
sionate voice,  after  much  more  had  passed  between 
them ;  '«  but  I  feel— and  I'm  not  ashamed  to  say  it— 
I  feel  I  can  be  of  some  use  to  you  now.  At  this 
crisis,  I  mean — of  course,  everybody  knows  about  it. 
And  if  you'd  only  let  me,  Nora,  I'd  be — I'd  be  so 
glad  to  help — I'm  really  attached  to  your  father, 
anyhow." 

The  girl  shot  a  quick  eager  look  towards  him  from 
the  troubled  eyes. 


A  GALLANT  KNIGH'J.   SIR.  ARTHUR!  2S} 

"  Yes,"  he  resumed  eagerly,  "  I'd  be  so  glad  to 
help — if  you'll  only  say  the  word,  Nora.  I  tell  you," 
he  began  vehemently,  rising  to  his  feet  and  coming 
over  to  her,  "  I'll  clear  off  the  whole  business— I'll 
discharge  every  dollar  of  your  father's  obligation,  and 
put  him  right  on  his  feet  again  ;  and  nobody  will  be 
any  the  wiser — if  you'll  only  let  me,  Nora,"  as  he 
timidly  put  out  one  hand  and  touched  her.  "  Say 
you'll  let  me,  Nora,"  he  whispered. 

The  girl  leaned  away,  her  face  aflame.  Yet  some- 
thing hke  wild  gratitude  looked  out  from  the  tender 
eyes  as  she  turned  her  face  up  to  his.  "  It's  so  good 
of  you,  Arthur,"  she  said,  trying  to  control  her  voice, 
"  and  I  can't  tell  you  how  my  heart  is  touched  by  it 
— believe  me,  I  am  not  indifferent  to  al!  your  kind- 
ness," hurrying  with  the  words  as  if  she  would  pre- 
vent some  burning  speech  from  him. 

The  other  seemed  to  leap  at  the  words,  as  if  he 
saw  some  gleam  of  hope.  "  And  it  isn't  chiefly 
for  that,"  he  went  on,  the  thrill  in  his  voice  attesting 
the  sincerity  of  his  words,  "  but  it's  because  I  love 
you,  Nora — it's  because  I've  loved  you,  I  really  be- 
lieve, ever  since  I  first  saw  your  lovely  face.  And 
I'm  willing  to  admit — I  do  admit— that  I  haven't 
been  all  I  should  have  been.  But  I'm  going  to  say 
this,"  his  voice  dropping  to  a  low  tense  tone,  "  and  I 
do  say  it — I  say  it  now,  and  God  knows  it's  true — 


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\.hat  the  last  Uvo  years  or  more,  since  I  knew  that  no 
one  could  ev.r  fill  my  life  but  you,  I  have  honestly 
tried  to  bi  .  different  man.  The  hope  of  being 
worthy,  o«  '.  eiic  worthy  of  you,  Nora,  has  made  me 
a  better  uMti- I'm  trying,  and  I  zc«// try  more  and 
more,  if  jou  'i  only  help  me  with  y.    .  :  ve." 

Nora  ;  <;o'«;d  up  shyly,  almost  t  '  rly,  her  face 
suffused.  Her  lips  moved  as  if  sht  ished  to  say 
something;  but  no  sound  escaped  them, 

"Yes,  that's  all  I  ask,"  he  resumed,  coming 
closer  to  her.  "I  know  how  good  you  are,  Nora 
— oi  course,  I  know,  as  everybody  knows,  how 
much  you've  had  to  contend  against.  With  this 
business — these  surroundings,"  he  explained  con- 
fusedly, unconsciously  turning  his  eyes  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  unechoing  bar — his  companion  winced  as 
if  in  pain  ;  "  and  it  was  only  yesterday  I  heard  some 
one  saying  how  lovely  they  thought  it  was  that  you 
still  kept  your  class  in  the  Sunday-school— and  they 
say  the  children  worship  you.  But  it  isn't  for  their 
sakes— or  for  your  father's  sake— that's  only  an  is- 
sue- -  )r  for  anybody's  sake  but  my  own  and  yours, 
it's  -or  yourself,  and  for  the  love  I  have  for  you,  that 
I  want  you— and  I  only  speak  of  ihat,  about  your 
father's  business  troubles,  as  one  of  the  things  I 
might  be  able  to  do  to  make  you  happy.  And  you 
have  the  making  of  me,  Nora— my  very  soul,  my 


A   GALLAm  KNIGHT,   SIR  ARTHUR/  2Vy 


future,  my  destiny,  are  all  in  your  hands,"  pressing 
this  claim  with  deeper  ardour  as  he  thought  he  de- 
tected some  response  in  the  girl's  face  to  this  loftier 
plea. 

We  need  not,  cannot,  follow  the  course  of  the  se- 
cret dialogue  which  grew  in  ardour  as  it  went  on  its 
way.  They  were  alone  together,  in  that  deepest  and 
holiest  of  all  solitude  that  wraps  a  wooing  heart  and 
a  retreating  one;  retreating,  yet  halting,  almost 
yielding,  turned  this  way  and  that  by  divers  claims, 
by  differing  impulses,  by  love,  and  by  lack  of 
love. 

No  tender  heart  will  think  harshly  of  Nora  Riley. 
Loving  her  father  with  passionate  devotion  ;  appalled 
by  the  doom  of  distress,  and  even  of  disgrace,  that 
loomed  before  him  ;  ready  to  lay  down  her  very  life 
for  him,  so  all-consuming  was  the  unselfishness  of 
her  heart ;  seeing  in  this  very  door  of  deliverance  the 
pathway  thi  jugh  which  she  might  escape  forever 
from  the  mode  of  brcadwinning  she  had  come  to 
hate  ^o  cordially  ;  beguiled,  as  so  many  noble  women 
have  been  beguiled  before  her,  by  the  dazzling  pros- 
pect of  wealth  and  station ;  persuaded,  too,  that  in 
her  hands  was  the  destiny  of  the  soul  that  wooed  her 
— and,  above  all,  convinced  of  the  sincerity,  even  of 
the  purity,  of  his  burning  love,  there  are  few  but  will 
understand  how   mighty  was  the  pressure,  how  all 


!'il 


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=t?T; 


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but  invincible  the  siege  that  was  being  laid  to  the 
holy  fortress  of  her  maiden's  heart. 

Nora  was  seeking  such  refuge,  and  such  wisdom, 
as  could  be  found  by  hiding  a  very  crimson  face  in 
two  hot  and  fevered  hands.  And  all  the  while 
Arthur  Dustan  pressed  his  suit  with  ever  waxing 
ardour. 

"Tell  me  to-night,  Nora,"  he  pleaded—"  I've 
waited  so  long,  and  so  patiently.  And  if  you'll  only 
say  the  word— if  you'll  only  say  the  word,  Nora,  it 
means  our  happiness,  yours  and  mine,  for  all  our 
future  lives."  He  came  over  as  he  spoke  and  gently, 
with  almost  reverent  touch,  tried  to  take  her  hands 
down  from  before  her  eyes.  "  Look  at  me,  Nora," 
he  said,  ••  and  tell  me— tell  me  what  I'd  give  my  life 
to  hear." 

Suddenly  the  hands  went  down  of  her  own  accord 
and  the  big  brown  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  man  be- 
fore her;  slowly,  steadily,  relentlessly,  they  seemed 
to  feel  their  way  out  to  his  and  to  fasten  on  them  as 
though  searching  the  very  soul  behind.  Involun- 
tarily, still  staring,  his  hands  were  withdrawn  as  he 
gazed,  like  one  arrested,  into  the  pure  depths  before 
him.  Long  she  looked,  the  placid  orbs,  rich  with 
the  light  of  purity  and  truth,  seeming  to  peer  into 
the  very  secrets  of  his  heart. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  began,  the  breath  at  last  coming 


A  GALLANT  KN/GHT.   SIR  ARTHUR!  257 

quick  from  the  rosy  parted  lips  ;  ••  is  it  true  what  you 
say  ? — about  how  you've  tried  ?  and  how  you're  go- 
ing to  try,  for  me  ?  To  be  good,  I  mean — to  be  true, 
and  noble,  and  good  ? "  the  words  coming  at  last 
with  a  little  gesture  of  impatience,  as  though  he 
should  know  without  being  told  50  definitely. 

Arthur  Dustan's  vows  flowed  freely,  the  while  he 
stood  and  gazed  into  the  eyes  that  would  not  be  de- 
ceived. 

"  And  there's  another  thing,"  the  sweet  voice  went 
on,  the  colour  deepening  in  her  cheeks ;  "  did  you 
mean  it,  when  you  said  you  really  liked  my  father — 
did  you  mean  that  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  did,  Nora,"  replied  Arthur ;  ••  of  course 
I  meant  it — why  ?  " 

"  Well,  because  I  wanted  to  be  sure,"  was  Nora's 
very  feminine  reply ;  "  and  you  would  " — the  crim- 
son deepened — "  you  would  always  be  good  to  him, 
and  kind — and — and  respect  him  ?  " 

••  Why,  Nora,"  protested  the  love-lorn  youth, "  isn't 
that  the  very  thing  I've  been  saying?  Didn't  I  just 
tell  you  that's  one  of  the  things  I'd  love  to  do— to  be 
of  any,  any  help,  I  could— and  to  set  him  free  from 
all  his  difficulties,  and  everything  like  that  ?  "  coming 
closer  again  as  his  purpose  kindled — and  his  hope. 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  the  girl  answered  firmly; 
"  but  I  mean,  I  rncan  this — you  wouldn't  look  doivn 


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on  him— or  despise  him— or  even  remember— even 
remember  all  aboui  this— about  this  business  we've 
made  our  living  in  ?  "  she  went  bravely  on,  the  quiv- 
ering lips  and  shaking  voice  revealing  how  much  it 
cost  her  to  speak  the  words. 

This  was  followed  by  a  torrent  of  protestation  and 
promise  on  Arthur's  part,  ending  at  last,  as  all  such 
toi  rents  are  bound  to  end,  in  a  renewal  of  the  origi- 
nal appeal. 

"  Why  won't  you  tell  me  what  I  want  to  hear  ?  " 
he  cried  at  last,  the  voice  athrob;  "why  wait 
and  linger  this  way,  Nora  ?— you  know,  surely  by 
this  time  you  must  know,  that  I  can't  live  with- 
out your  love— anc  won't,  either,"  he  added  vehe- 
mently,  rising  and  coming  to\.drds  her  with  arms 
outstretched. 

Again  those  deep,  placid  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
him ;  and  again  something  in  .heir  pure  depths  re- 
strained and  startled  him.  "  Tell  me,"  he  suddenly 
broke  out,  almost  in  a  tone  of  fierceness,  "  tell  me 
this— is  there  anybody  else  ?  Is  there  some  other 
man,  who  stands  in  the  way— some  one  you— you 
love— more  than  you  do  me  ?  I  want  to  know  that 
—tell  me,  Nora,  is  there  another  ?  "  and  his  tone  was 
one  of  strong  entreaty,  almost  of  command. 

Love  is  surely  blind,  as  some  one  said  long  ago. 
If  it  were  not,  Arthur  Dustan   would    never   have 


A   GALLANT  KNIGHT,    SIR  ARTHUR!  259 

failed  to  read  his  answer  in  the  sudden  wave  of  flame 
that  surged   up  out  of  the  Infinite  and  ovenwept 

neck  and  cheek  and  brow.     Nor unless  love  is 

blind  and  stone  blind  at  that— could  he  have  mis- 
taken the  meaning  of  the  maiden's  eye,  a  moment 
before  veiled  and  wistful,  but  now  aglow  with  the 
mystic  light  that  is  never  seen  on  sea  or  land.  Alas  ! 
he  thought  that  these  were  all  for  him,  so  blind  is 
love  when  it  gazes  on  the  object  of  its  devotion. 

He  waited  for  her  answer.  When  it  came,  it  came 
from  blanched  and  quivering  lips — all  of  which,  to 
his  purblind  vision,  confirmed  the  sweet  conclusion. 

"  No,"  she  faltered,  "  no,  there's  nobody— I  don't 
—I  don't— love  any  one  at  all,"  the  big  eyes  now 
filhng  with  tears  as  the  swimming  gaze  was  turned 
away  from  him. 

He  uttered  a  sharp  exclamation  of  joy.  "  That's 
heaven  to  me— to  hear  you  say  that."  he  added 
fervently  a  moment  later.  "  I  was  always  afraid  of 
some  one— I  guess  you  know  who;  I've  tortured 
myself  for  long  with  the  idea  that  you  were  fend  of 
that  young  Mc.izies— you  remember  the  day  I  went 
out  to  their  place  in  the  countr>',  when  you  were 

there ;  and  I  fancied  then " 

She  checked  him  with  an  impei .  is  stamp  of  the 
foot.  And  the  pallor  that  came  over  her  face  like  a 
driving  mist  filled  his  very  heart  with  joy ;  for  love 


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is  blind.  "  Stop,"  she  demanded ;  "  don't  ever  men- 
tion his  name  to  me  again.  I  wont  have  it— he's 
nothing  to  me— and  I  haven't  seen  him  for,  for  ever 
so  long,"  she  went  on  vehemently.  ••  And  I  know 
he  just  despises  vu\'  the  words  trembling  as  they 
came, "  so  there— you  needn't  distress  yourself.  And 
1  don't  want  you  ever  to  speak  of  him  to  me  again  — 
never,  never  again,"  a  strange  and  unnecessary  fire 
surging  through  her  speech  as  her  glowing  eyes 
fixed  themselves  again  on  him. 

Whereat,  rejoiced  beyond  words  to  tell,  all  uncon- 
scious of  what  lay  behind  the  sudden  outbreak,  he 
took  advantage  of  the  gathering  dark  to  press 
the  hunger  of  his  heart  with  an  insistence  and  a 
tenderness  such  as  seldom  fail  with  a  woman's 
gentle  and  yielding  soul.  The  shadows  closed  in 
upon  them  ;  the  deep  stillness  of  the  evening  was 
broken  by  no  sound  but  that  of  those  two  voices, 
the  one  strong  and  aggressive  and  masterful,  the 
other  more  and  more  faint  and  faltering— till  by  and 
by  the  great  silence  fell,  all  the  deeper  for  the  gentle 
whispers  that  flowed  now  r'.nd  then  from  burning  lips 
to  feed  the  Vestal  Flame. 


XVII 
"NOT  ACCEPTING    DELiyERANCE" 

THE  lamp  was  lifihted  now — and  Nora  was 
sittinji  all  alone  when  Dinny  returned  that 
Saturday  night.  His  keen  eyes,  swiftly 
surveying  the  dear  face  before  him,  had  already  de- 
tected signs  which  told  him  something  beyond  the 
ordinary  had  come  to  pass  in  his  absence.  Hut  no 
trace  of  his  suspicion  escaped  him. 

"  I  picked  up  a  piece  av  news  at  Andy  Orr's  to- 
night," he  began,  after  a  few  desultory  remarks  had 
passed  between  them  ;  "  an'  Andy  was  more  in- 
t'rested  in  the  news  than  he  was  in  them  eliven  pigs," 
the  grin  on  Dinny 's  face  a  little  forced  and  dry. 
"  The  news  is  about  yer  father,  Nora — it's  about 
that  there  subscription  to  the  church  I  was  tellin'  ye 
about." 

Nora's  interest  was  aroused  at  once.  "  About  the 
subscription,  father  ?  "  she  echoed  ;  "  why,  you  said 
you  were  going  to  pay  it,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Sure,"   he  answered,  "  sure,  1  was  goin'  to  pay 

it — like  anny  honest  man  would  do.     But  that's  the 

news — Andy  says  they  won't  let  me — he  says  the 

elders  won't  take  it." 

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f  ■ 


"Won't  take  it!"  cried  Nora,  amazed.  "Why, 
father  ? — why  oa  earth  wouldn't  they  take  it  ?  I 
thought  they  wanted  all  the  money  they  c  .uld  tjet," 
as  iihe  rose  and  came  over  beside  him. 

"  So  they  do,"  Dinny  answered  calmly  ;  "  but 
they're  gettin'  too  pious  to  take  mine.  Seems  it  >  in't 
good  enough— it's  got  blooii  on  it,  And)'  says  ;  kind 
o'  silcd,  it  seems — that's  the  word  they  use,  I  think. 
It's  a  divil  of  a  fine  word,  ain't  it,  now,  when  you 
come  to  think  av  it  ?  My  money's  drippin'  wid  the 
wail  av  t!ie  orphint  an'  the  screech  av  the  widow — 
that's  what  they  say,  Andy  tells  me.  Got  the  smell 
av  Scotch  whiskey  on  it,  I  guess — an'  them  fellows 
ought  to  know — they've  sampled  it  lots  o'  times, 
right  in  there,"  and  Dinny  forced  a  jocular  grimace 
as  he  shrugged  his  left  shoulder  in  the  direction  of 
the  darkened  bar. 

He  could  see  his  daughter's  face.  And  there  was 
plainly  visible  upon  it,  as  always  when  this  theme  was 
touched  upon,  the  stamp  of  pain.  Alas  !  her  father's 
grotesque  reference  to  the  widow's  wail  or  the  or- 
phan's cry  had  nothing  of  merriment  to  her  ;  and  the 
fair  i'oatures  on  which  Dinny's  eyes  were  glued  told 
the  distress  his  speech  had  caused  her.  She  knew  it 
had  been  spoken  in  bravado — but  only  her  sense  of 
what  was  due  her  father  checked  the  word  of  chiding 
that  sprang  so  quickly  to  her  lips. 


"A/or  ACCEPTING   DELiyERANCE"    2b} 

She  rose  and  came  over  to  where  he  sat,  taking 
her  place,  as  she  had  been  wont  to  do  since  child- 
hood, on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  her  hand  gliding  into 
his.     And  he  might  have  seen— probably  he  did — 
that  she  /oo  had  tidings ;  such  tidings  as  only  once 
can  a  maiilen  break  to  her  father,  as  only  once  can  a 
father    hear.     Yes,  he  knew.     And   she   knew   he 
knew— for  a  full  half  minute  passed,  unspoiled  by 
speech,  while  the  calm  eyes  of  the  girl  gazed,  full 
of  meaning  and  purpose,  into  the  less  calm  eyes  of 
the  man.     Dinny  saw  in  them  again  the  image  of 
her  long  lost  mother,  the  same  quiet  strength,  the 
same  fixed  resolve,  the  same  deep  affection.     He  saw 
again,  too,  the  light  and  merriment  of  the  childhood 
she  had  left  behind  ;  her  sou   rhastened  now  by  sor- 
row, enriched  by  the  long,  ione'y  struggle  of  her 
almost  alien  life,  glorified  by  the  strength  and  grace 
of  her  splendid  womanhood. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  j'Oii,  father,"  she  began, 
and  the  words  came  quick  and  firm  at  first,  as  if  she 
were  straightened  till  her  message  should  be  delivered. 
"  We  soon  won't  have  to  make  money  this  way  any 
more— it's  nearly  all  over,  father.  And  we  won't 
have  to — to  carry  on— this,  this  business  any  more," 
gasping  a  little  as  she  came  to  the  end  of  the  sentence. 
Dinny  gave  a  sudden  start  of  surprise,  turning  to 
look  sharp  into  his  daughter's  face. 


I 


:!64 


'THE   H/iNDICAP 


"  Whafs  that  ye're  sayin'  ?  "  he  demanded  almost 
sternly;  "  goin'  out  o'  business,  d'ye  say?  What 
d'>'e  mean,  girl  ?_d'ye  mean  they're  goin'  to  pass 
that  law,  that  prohibition  law,  an"  shet  us  up— turn 
u-sout  on  tue  street?"  his  keen  eyes  searching  her 
face  for  some  trace  of  the  answer  he  expected. 

'•  No,"  she  answered    calmly  ;  "  no,   it  isn't  that, 
father.     But  it's  something  else."  she  went  on,  halt- 
ing  before   the  plunge ;  "  it's  somebody  else  who's 
going  to  make  everything  all  right  for  us,  father— and 
he'll  fix  everything,  so  we  won't  owe  anybody.     And 
then— and  then,  father— tlien   you'll   come  and  live 
icith  //.—always,  father,  and  you  and  I  won't  have 
to  part  at  all.     Only  we'll  go  away  from  here,"  and 
as  she  spoke  her  eyes  seemed  to  make  the  circle  of 
the  house,  almost  shrinkingly,  as  though  the  place 
might  be  haunted. 

Silence  fell  for  a  long  space  upon  them.  Neither 
sp.  .kc  ;  nor  did  either  look  at  the  other.  But  Dinny's 
clasp  tightened  on  the  hand  he  held,  and  the  girl 
nestled  a  little  closer  to  the  form  beside  her. 

Dinny  knew.  He  knew  it  all-knew  who  it  was 
that  had  claimed  the  treasure  of  his  heart ;  and 
kijLiv  how  that  treasure  had  been  won.  With  the 
fia.hing  light  of  luvc  and  sympathy  he  discerned  it 
all— and  his  heart  sank  within  him.  No  thought 
possessed  liirn  in  that  moment  except  the  one  ab- 


11 


*^>:<' 


■iatSTJ^-pr' 


"NOT  ACCEPTING  DELiyERANCE"    2h-^ 

sorbing  thought  of  the  happiness  or  uiiliappincss  of 
his  motherless  child.  Fierce  was  the  struggle  in  his 
soul ;  mighty  the  self-control  that  scaled  his  lips. 

When  those  lips  at  last  found  sptecii,  it  was  ul  far 
different  sort  from  wnat  Nora  had  expected. 

"  I  heard  another  piece  av  news  when  I  was — 
when  I  was  inspectin'  Andy's  little  pigs,"  he  re- 
marked gravel)- ;  "  an'  it  was  good  news,  mind  ye." 

Nora  answered  never  a  word ;  this  was  too  much 
for  any  maiden's  heart. 

"  It  was  about  politics,"  Dinny  went  on  calmly  in 
a  moment.  "  Only  it  won't  be  of  anny  interest  to 
the  likes  o'  ye,"  he  added  sorrowfully ;  "  sure, 
womenfolks  don't  care  a  rap  about  politics — 'spe- 
cially when  they're  thinkin'  av  marryin'  an'  givin'  in 
marriage.  An'  annyhow,"  the  words  coming  out 
carelessly, "  it's  consarnin'  a  man  ye  don't  care  anny- 
thin'  about.  Well,  it's  this — they  t-  Id  nie,  down  at 
Andy's,  that  they're  likely  goin'  to  put  up  young 
Menzies  to  run  for  Parlimint !  Seems  as  how 
ihej're  gettin'  tired  av  always  havin'  the  quality  to 
represent  'em — so  they  say  they're  goin'  to  get  a 
common  fellow— just  a  farmer,  like — an'  it  looks  like 
Irwin  was  goin*  to  be  their  man.  He's  been  makin' 
some  terrible  fine  speeches  lately,  it  seems,  at  their 
political  meetin's  in  the  schoolhouses  round  the 
country— been    wipin'    up   the  floore,  like,  wid  the 


•^       l^frtJt^SHPi?<^M$B^^'Ji!@>hlIS^K?valil^';r.:r^S^T^ 


!s***i5 


'i^iSlBnF^-TfvS? 


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f """  they  p„t  „p  ,g,„  ^._^.  ^_^^  ^^^^.^  ^^ 
..^ca™.  about  they're  thinkin'  ,v  runnin'  I™i,  J, 

Then  he  turned  to  uhere  she  sat  beside  him 
Cen.:y  he  placed  his  hand,  upon  her  shoulder;  and' 
-  hout  a  uord,  he  removed  her  fron.  her  place  and 

?  ':   ";  t  r  '"  ~"''"°'"'  f"'""'°  "" 

.«■     ^"'.^  sound  did  he  utter,  nor  did  he  trvto 

throw   any  special  significance  into   the  ga^e  ;i,h 

w  .ch   he   fastened   his   eyes   upon   her.     But.I  ffl 

hoidm     Her  out  before  hin,,  he  looked  ,o„g  lid 

teadtoy,3earchingly,..,erfu,ly.i„,o,helht 
face  that  was  turned  up  ,o  ,„eet  h,s  own. 

seemed'  "  'n '"  '"  '"'^  '"  ^P""'  ^"'  "-  "ords 

brl  the?,  ^'°  •"  """'"  "  "=^  """"y  »"" 
broke  the  s.lence  first.    ■•  An'  about  that  there  other 

-.^erN  he  began,  face  and  voice  alike  com- 
P<»=d  and  eahn,  -there  ain't  nothin'  to  it_about 
anny  od    helpi„.  „    out,  ,  mean-payin'  „.y  dett 

walk  the  earth  that  I'd  let  do  that  for  n,e_„«., 
'to/.n«,  anny  way,"  his  voice  suddenly  rising  as  the 

eTe!':"  °:  '"^  ""''  '-■'=''  -  -'=  'ace'   bur  ir^    „ 
e  k  and  eye.    ..No,  not  at  that  price,  Nora  Jy 

man  .ha^I'd  '  n"  """■  """■  "'"=  -■'  -"^  '™"' 
man  that  I  d  sell  out  to  on  then,  there  terms     D'ye 

•.-.  my  darlintr'  With  Which,  the  fiery  voice  all 


'NOT  ACCEPTING  DEUyERANCE"  2b-j 
broken  now,  the  flashing  eyes  all  wet  with  blinding 
tears,  he  clasped  her  passionately  in  his  arms  and 
held  her  tight  to  his  heaving  bosom ;  a  bosom 
whose  store  of  love  and  tenderness  was  fed  from 
the  fountains  of  Eternal  Love  itself. 

The  girl,  gasping.  lay  passive  in  his  arms.  When 
the  storm  at  length  was  spent  he  released  her  from 
his  clasp  sufficiently  to  look  again  into  her  face. 
The  loving  eyes  were  still  moist  and  dim  ;  but  the 
old  light  of  whimsical  drollery  was  to  be  seen  as  he 
gazed  with  unutterable  fondness  on  his  child. 

"  An'  about  that  there  political  matter,  Nora— 
about  the  comin'  contest,  d'ye  mind— d'ye  want  to 
know  what  yer  old  father  thinks  abo-.c  that,  Mav- 
ourneen  ? " 

Nora  gazed  at  him,  bewildered.  "  No,  I  don't 
know,  father,"  she  nui-mured. 

••  Well,  my  darlint— I  think  he'll  win— I  think  that 
there  farmer  cuss  '11  win  out,  wid  both  hands  Jown ; 
them's  my  sentiments,  Nora— he'll  beat  ^Iie  Dnstan 
fellow  so  bad  his  mother  an'  the  dog  won't  know  him 
when  he  comes  homo ;  they  won't  be  able  t«  see  him 
for  arnicky  an'  stickin'  pla«;er.  You  wait  an'  see, 
my  darlint,"  with  whic!.  prediction  Dinny  arose  and 
took  the  iron  bootjack  down  from  behind  the  door, 
now  ready  for  liis  rest. 


1 


f   I 


:i 


1 


"nMi'^:^'x^^  %-rj^'r:^f^?'s?^^mi 


XVIII 

DINNY   THE    DIPLOMAT 

T"^  T  "^  '""  e'-"^"'ng  on  .!,„  grass, 
and  the  fragrance  of  the  s„cot  Canadian 
morning  „as  s.ill  rising  from  ,hc  n.cadows 
wl.cn  J,nnj.  rode  i„.„  .„„  goU,,,  l,ar„s,.field  and 
d  evv  rem  as  he  watched  the  „.e„  busy  a,  their  toil 
Ch,e,  a„,o„g  them  was  the  stahvar.  form  of  the  farmer 
h..nse!f  h,s  face  showing  the  satisfaction  he  feU  as  he 
watc  ed    the   profitable  industry.    The  years  had 
added  strength  and  character  to  the  always  noble 
CO  n,c„ance,and  every  moven.ent  spo.e  of  health 
and  v.gour  as  he  turned  hither  and  thither  an.id  the 
rustling  shocks  of  grain. 
"The  top  av  the  mornin'  ,o  ye  ;  ••  sang  „u,  Uin„y_ 

"l.om,ght  that  be  ye'rewavin'at-a.  the  hose 
like,  forninst  ye  ?  -  ' 

The   bronzed   fac.  of  Irwin  Menzics  looked  up 

"•rr,..Good.mor„,ng,  Mr.  Riley."  he  answered 
-  oh.  ,t  s  an  old-tim.  habi,  my  uncle  used  to  have  ■ 
he  ahvays  wawd  t„w,.rds  the  house  whenever  a  load 
Of  ffraiii  sta-tcd  for  the  h-rn       T     . 

T'y  ■^rPJ-"— 'd  n,y  n,other  always  watches  for 
tt.     You  re  out  earl;-.  Afr.  Rjlcy." 

268 


III 


m' 


>^7W»"^^ 


W 


DINNY    THE    DIPLOMAT         21^ 

Dinny  dismounted  from  his  hor^c,  and  a  lew  min- 
utes were  spent  in  irrelevant  conversation. 

"  But  I  mustn't  be  keepin'  ye,"  he  suddenly  an- 
nounced, "  wid  all  the  work  that's  afore  >  c.  15ut  I 
wanted  to  speak  a  bit  about  this  here  matter  every- 
body's talkin'  about— tins  here  political  matter,  ye 
know;  sure.  I  don't  need  to  tcli  yc  annythin' about 
it,"  with  which  he  launched  at  once  into  the  matter 
on  hand. 

The  conversation  lasted  long.  Irwin  reclining 
against  a  stook  of  golden  grain  while  Dinny  stood 
above  him,  evidently  pressing  hard  the  idea  that 
possessed  him. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I'd  consider  it  at  all."  Irwin 
said  at  lengtii,  "  if  it  weren't  for  the  fact  that  the 
nomination  is  pretty  sure  to  go  to  that  Dustan  fel- 
low, if  it  doesn't  come  my  way.     They  say  I'm  the 
only  man  could  get  it  ahead  of  him— and  that  rather 
appeai.s  to  me.     I'm  just  human  enough  to  remem- 
ber how  often  he  has  .^^nubbed  me— and,  what's  far 
worse,  he  has  more  tiian  once  shown  his  contempt 
for  the  one  that'.s  dearest  to  me  in  this  world.     \ou 
know  who.  Mr.  Riley,"  the  strong  face  kindling  as 
he  glanced  far  over  the  fields  at  the  farmhouse  in  the 
distance.     A  woman's  form  could   be  seen  moving 
about  the  door,  her  white  sunbonnet  glistening  in 
the   morning   light.     "  Considerable  of  a  snob,  be- 


;  ¥1 


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THE  HANDIC/IP 


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h  w  ,K  T  ""'  ""  "  '""'  """^y  ■•  "  J""  because 
hM  father  happens  to  have  made  a  little  money,  he 

ttrnta  he's  the  aristocrat  of  the  pUce-thinks  he's 
got  the  right  of  way  over  all  the  rest  of  us  • 

"Then  I'd  sock  it  to  him.  if  I  was  y„u,..  „„„„ 
advsed  cordially.    "  I'd  learn  him  who /„  is  all  right 
sure  he  a,„'t  any  better  than  the  rest  of  us.    ,  1,' 
l"s  father  when  he  used  to  dig  drams  for  Andy  Or "s 
grandfather_an'  he  used  to  feed  the  pigs,  too  ■  an' 

^.s  w.fe_ArU.ur's  mother,  ,  mean  Jve  seen' ,::, 
churnn,  an'  milkin',  when  she  was  a  hired  girl.  More 
credit  ,„  her  too-but  that  young  spalpeen,  pu.tin' 

"V  "  •""""■  ""  P""'  ="  '""■•  if  I  "as  you  " 

Irw,n  smiled,  shelling  a  head  of  wheat  reflectively 
as  he  looked  down  on  the  ground.     "  Not  the  very 
highest  motive  for  entering  political  life.  I'm  afraid  " 
he  remarked  with  a  smile,  af.er  a  long  pause  ;  ••  th'e 
ace  of  the  matter  is,  I  hardly  know  just  what  to  do 
ve  been  wishing  mightily  that  I  had  some  gcd 
sound  advice  in  the  mat.ei-from  some  one  thaH-  „'f 
■nterested  particularly,  some  one  who  would  give  me 
a  straight  opinion,  without  any  personal  feeling  at 
all,    and  Irwin  looked  perplexedly  along  the  glisten- 
ing avenue  before  him. 

Uinny's  face  was  slightly  flushed.  But  he  had  his 
voice  under  perfect  control  as  he  answered,  though 
"  "■"''  '^  =''■"'"<''  his  eyes  were  turned  away 


DINNY  THE    DIPLOMAT        371 

"  I'll  tell  ye  who  ye  ought  to  see, '  he  said  signifi- 
cantly ;  "  there's  some  one  I  know  would  like  to  talk 
this  over  wid  ye — an"  she's  got  a  level  head,  even  if 

she  is  a  riiative  av  my  own.     It's  my  girl,  Nora 

won't  ye  go  an'  talk  it  wid  Nora,  Irwjii  ?     Sure  she'll 
give  ye  the  advice  ye're  wantin',  mc  boy." 

The  flame  leaped  to  Irwin's  face,  mounting  up  till 
it  suffused  the  broad  brow  above.  "  What  makes 
you  say  that  ?  "  he  demanded — "  is  it  because  you 
mean  she  isn't  interested — because,  because  you 
mean  she  cares  nothing  for  me  ?  "  the  dark  stern 
eyes  fixed  rigidly  on  the  immobile  face  before  him. 

"  Sure  I  don't  mean  annythin',"  Dinny  answered 
demurely  ;  •'  an'  yc'll  have  to  find  out  that  other  for 
yerself.  When  it  comes  to  the  heart  av  a  woman,  I'm 
like  that  there  case  in  the  Bible — I  haven't  annythin' 
to  draw  wid,  an'  the  well  is  deep.  Nora's  is,  anny- 
how.  But  I'm  afoared,  Irwin,"  his  voice  dropping  to 
the  confidential,  ••  I'm  a  little  afeared  that  there  Du- 
stan  fellow  is  tryin'  to  get  her  on  his  side;  I'm 
afeared  he's  been  canvassin'  her — he  was  at  the 
house  Saturday  night,  when  I  was  down  lookin'  at 
Andy  Orr's  little  pigs.  So  I  thought  ye'd  mebbe 
better  be  axin'  her  for  her  vote  an'  influence,  like  ?  " 
and  Dinny  looked  up  at  Irwin  with  as  innocent  a 
pair  of  eyes  as  ever  concealed  the  depths  of  an  Irish 
heart. 


4 


6-    I 
ill 

.1 


■PIPH 


nl 


T  THE  HMNDIC^P 

That  day  pa«cd  on  leaden  feet,  «  far  a,  Irwin 

M=n««  was    concerned.    And  ,he  early  evcnTn" 

ound  h,n,  within  the  precincts  of  The  „uck  Tav"™ 

shown  ,n  thither  by  the  proprietor  hin.se.f,  who  I"' 

now  departed  to  hnd  his  daughter  and  i  f„r„,  he" 

tha  a  v,mor  was  waiting  i„  „,,  Ut.le  parlour 

Qu.tc  vainly  d,d  Nora  try  to  conceal  her  astonish- 
".«.  when  she  entered  the  roon.  and  bchdd  the    „. 
"pecte^  guest.    A  few  minutes,  however.suffi    d  to 
=^ure  her  th«  he  icnew  nothing  of  „,,«  ,,,,t 
n     '"  "■"  «""=  "ora  a  couple  of  nights  before 

pr  ,2r  ''V"  '"""^  -""  "»■'■-""  -u^' 
..el.™  nary  embarrassment,  led  up  to  .he  n.a.ter  of 

h.spo^,..cal  prospects,  and  sought  her  counsel  about 

vo'ur'ar""'  '°  T'-"  '"  ""'  "  '"■«"•  ■■  "  '  »■"'«" 
your  adv,ce-a„d.  besides,  your  father  advised  me  to 

Nora    started    i„   her  seat.     '-My  father'"  she 
echoed,  b,t,„g  her  lip  .„  „„,„,  I  „„.,^^^^  ^ 

.Leatened  to  ensue.    ••  Did  he  teU  you  .    ,  mean 
*-i     e  say  anything-^that   is,  did  L  teU  you  "i 
about  everything  >     About  Saturday  nigh,  >  ■ 
Irwin  stared,  aghast.     Slowly,  slowly  and  cruelly 

H  :::„;  ™"'"^'""°""'°'""-''"■•^'■■•"™ 
dow„  a  h"    "T  """  '"  *■■"'  '""  -••  '-king 

down  at  her  .n  the  imperfect  light.    And  then,  a! 


■  If 

II 


m^wtmBiiEm^ 


^^ws 


■^^'x^fm.'-^, 


DINNY  THE  DIPLOMAT  27, 
only  lovers  are  gifted  to  discern,  he  read  what  most 
he  feared  ;  in  the  downcast  eyes  and  burning  clieeks 
and  quivering  lips,  he  read  it  all.  His  hand.,  out- 
going, touched  her  reverently;  she  turned  a  litilc. 
trembling— and  he  could  see  her  face.  The  eyes  u  ere' 
closed— but  she  knew— and  slowly  his  face  descended 
towards  hers,  the  hot  breath  ruffling  a  little  the 
wavy  strands  of  hair  that  floated  about  neck  and  brow. 
"  Don't,  Irwin,"  she  murmured  pitifully—"  if  you 
love  me." 

He  waited,  pausing  a  moment.    ••  Why  ?  "  he  said 
hoarsely. 

"  Because  I'm  promised,"  and  the  answer  was  so 
faint  he  could  scarcely  hear. 

"  You're  mine,  Nora,"  he  said,  his  voice  low  and  tense 
—almost  triumphant.     And  the  words,  as  he  uttered 
them  once  again,  came  with  no  shock  of  surprise  to 
her  as  she  rested  with  upturned  face.     ••  You're  mine, 
Nora-even  if  you  won't  admit  it-even  if  j'ou  do 
not  know  it."  he  said,  his  voice  sounding  far  away,  so 
low  that  she  could  barely  hear;  "you've  been  mine, 
ever  since  I  first  saw  your  face  that  winter  morning 
in   the  sleigh.     And  I'll  never  give  you  up— never, 
never— whatever  promises  yca've  made,  or  whoever 
claims  you  as  his  ov.n.     Good-bye."  as  his  face  was 
slowly  raised  from  hers,  while  his  eyes  still  gripped 
her  own  with  the  same  masterful  passion  as  before. 


'fi 


^74  THE  HANDICAP 

Without  a  word  he  moved  towards  the  door,  turning 
to   look    long    upon    the   a.hen  face  before  him. 
CJosed  a  moment,  the  door  was  suddenly  opened 
agam,  as  Irwin's  set  face  reappeared. 
"I've  got  the  advice   I  wanted."  he  said  signifi- 

enter  that  contest." 

She  merely  looked  up.  mystified.     "That  contest 
-c  spoke  about."  he  added,  each  word  comin,  out 
ersely  by  .tself  as  his  hps  closcc  tight.     "  r„,  going 
to  go  mto  it  novv-and  I'm  going  to  win." 


i^yyi:* 


XIX 

"THE    INJUDEECIOUS    USE" 

TllK  possessions  of  Dinny  Rilcy  were  cer- 
tainly the  cause  of  much  concern.  Two 
ardent  heart  ,  as  has  been  already  told,  were 
struggling  for  h.s  daughter.  And  a  whole  body  of 
ciders,  as  shall  now  be  lold.  were  disturbed  about  the 
disposition  of  h.s  ducats  .  or  su,  h  poor  share  of  them, 
at  least,  as  Dinny's  generous  hand  had  offe.cd  them,' 
wrung  as  that  offering  was  from  his  own  plaintive' 
poveity  and  in  spite  of  impending  loss. 

Wherefore  it  came  about  that  t!.c  kirk  session  ot 
St.  Andrew's  was  convened  on  a  certain  night,  some 
considerable  time  after  that  momentous  evening  on 
which    Irwin  had   avowed    his   love.     A    ^^jance  at 
the  care-worn    face  of  Dr.   Leitch.  more  and  nunc 
beautiful  as  that   face    became   with   the   deepeninjj 
years,  might  have  shown  that  uie  business  before  the 
court  was  of  a  kind  not  especially  palatable  to  the 
Moderator.     Besides,  every  last  elder  of  the  church 
was  present-and  this  in  itself  uas  an  unfailing  sign 
that  the   matter  in  hand  was  of  more  than  passing 
interest.    Nor  wa.  it  loner  before  the  clerk  of  scs..on, 

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If  •'  i* 


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(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


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I.I 


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as  (7ir)    288  -  5989  -  Fa« 


376 


THE   HANDICAP 


with  a  mien  more  than   ordinarily  solemn   and  re- 
sponsible, presented  that  matter  to  his  brethren. 

"  As  ye  ken.  Moderator."  he  began  in  measured 
tones.  "  the  business  afore  us  is  to  deal  wi'  this  com- 
niumcation,"  dwelling  with  a  little  pride  on  the  word 
as  he  held  a  large  sheet  of  closely  written  foolscap  up 
before  him.  "  I'll  read  it  to  ye-an' the  court  can 
aae  wi    t  as  it  considers  best." 

With  which  the  clerk  proceeded  to  read  the  docu- 
nient.     -  An'  that's  the  subjec'  o'  discussion.  Moder- 
ator,    he    announced    ominously   as    he    finished; 
"  wull  ye  tak'  the  money  o'  Dinny  Riley-or  wull  ye 
grant  the  plea  o'  the  petitioner"  (these  words  were 
music  to  the  ecclesiastical  ear  of  the  venerable  clerk) 
-an'  send  it  back  till  him.  wi'  the  intimation-wi- 
the mtimation."  he  repeated,  now  in  his  very  element, 
"  that  we  dinna'  want  it  ?  " 

••  The  matter  is  before  you.  my  brethren."  Dr 
Latch  said  quietly,  evident  distress  upon  his  face 
"  What  disposition  shall  be  made  of  the  money  that 
Mr.  R.ley  has  paid  in  towards  the  new  church  ?  If  you 
decde  it  is  not  to  be  accepted,  the  trustees  will  have 
to  be  notified  to  that  effect;  if  it  is  to  be  accepted 
no  action  need  be  taken,  of  course.  The  whole' 
question  ,s  now  in  your  hands  for  your  decision  " 

There  was  a  long  pause.     Then  arose  one  of  the 
rnost  orthodox  of  the  elders,  the  same  whose  protest 


"The  INJUDEECIOUS  USE'  277 
had  just  been  ,ead,  and  he  promptly  moved  that  the 
treasurer  be  instructed  to  return  to  Mr.  Denms 
Riley  the  sum  of  money  received  from  him.  and  to 
explain  to  Mr.  Riley  why  his  contribution  could  r.ot 
be  accepted. 

"  We  a-  ken.  Moderator."  the  good  man  r.rge  J 
when  speaking  to  his  motion,  «<  or  we  a'  should  ken 
at  ony  rate."  he  revised.  •'  that  it's  no'  bccomin'  to 
tak'  money  for  the  work  o'  the  Lord,  that's  been 
earned  the  way  Dinny-the  way  Mr.  Riley-comes 
by  his.  We  a'  ken  he  mak's  his  money  seilui' 
whiskey,  an'^ " 

"  Excuse  me.  Moderator,"  broke  in  one  of   the 
brethren   in   the   rear,  famous  as  the  authority  on 
church  law  among  them;  •'  I  rise  till  a  pint  o'  order 
-I  submit  that  yon  is  no'  a  fittin'  word  to  be  used 
m   a  solemn   court   o'  the  kirk  like  this      If  Mr 
Paisley  >,^us^  refer  to  the-the  commodity-that  Mr 
Riley  deals  in,  let  him  ca'  it  by  a  name  that'll  no' 
ower  the  dignity   o'  this  court.     It's  '  speerituous 
liquors.    I   submit,  Mr.   Moderator,  that  Mr.  Riley 
sells^n-  no'  what  Mr.   Paisley  ca'd  it.     Sic  a  like 
word."  he  went  on   contemptuously,  "  to  utter  at  a 
meetin'  o'  the  session-an'  it  duly  opened  wi'  prayer 
into  the  bargain  !  "  as  the  ecclesiastic  took  his  seat 
with    a     reproachful    glance    at    the    plain-spoken 
brother. 


i 


Hi 


I 

I'. 
?    i 


1. 


378 


THE   HANDICAP 


i 


.-Wi 


But  Mr.  Paisley,  after  the  fashion  of  his  kind,  was 
in  no  way  disposed  to  yield  without  a  struggle. 
Such  struggles,  piously  carried  on,  have  been  the 
perquisites  of  kirk  sessions  since  the  days  of  John 
Knox  himself. 

"  Yon  is  triflin'  wi'  terms,"  he  replied  defiantly, 
after  a  prolonged  use  of  a  very  crimson  handkerchief 
had  given  him  time  to  gather  his  forces.  "  I  dinna' 
believe  in  mincin'  words.  An'  I  canna'  help  won- 
derin'  if  Mr.  Laidlaw,"  indicating  his  challenger  by  a 
nod  in  his  direction,  "if  Mr.  Laidlaw  is  aye  as 
pertikkler  as  he  is  the  day— in  the  use  o'  terms,  that 

is.     Sae  I'll  ask  him — through  you.  Moderator I'll 

be  askin'  Mr.  Laidlaw,  when  he  tak's  a  wee  drappie 
at  the  taivern  himsel',  does  he  ca'  for  whiskey— like 
I  Ccd  it,  Moderator— or  does  he  say  he'd  like  a 
leetle  « speerituous  liquors '  ?  That'll  gie  us  licht  on 
the  pint,  Moderator,"  he  added,  nodding  his  head 
amiably  towards  Dr.  Leitch. 

But  Mr,  Laidlaw's  reply  was  already  on  his  lips. 
With  fatal  haste  it  came.  "  I  dinna'  7teed  to  say 
what,"  he  retorted  triumphantly ;  "  they  a'  ken  what 
I  aye  tak'— when  I'm  no'  feelin'  extry  well,"  he 
added  by  way  of  repair.  "An',  onyway,"  he 
hurried  to  point  out,  the  peril  of  his  defense  begin- 
ning to  dawn  on  him,  "  they're  twa  very  different 
matters— what  a  buddy  says  i'  the  taivern,  an'  what 


"The  INJUDEECIOUS  USE"  279 
he  says  at  a  meetin'  o'  the  session.  An",  even  if  an 
elder  docsna'  ca"  it  •  speerituous  liquors  '  then,  it 
isna'  written  doon  in.  the  minutes  an'  signed  by  the 
Moderator,"  he   exclaimed    triumphantly,  his  head 

going  out  with  a  httle  jerk  towards  the  vanquished 
brother. 

There  are  always  champions  for  the  strong. 
Wherefore,  to  add  to  the  overthrow  of  the  aforesaid 
vanquished  one,  there  arose  a  veteran  member  of  the 
court,  Andrew  Kersell  by  name.  His  eye  was  flash- 
ing with  the  eagerness  that  possessed  him,  for  he  felt 
sure  that  his  remarks  would  settle  the  point  in  ques- 
tion. 

"  Mr.   Laidlaw  was   richt,"   he  began   positively, 
"  an*  I  can  prove  it,"  extending  a  long  index  finger 
as  the  first  step  in  the  process.     •<  It  doesna'  require 
mair  nor  common  intelligence,  Moderator,  to  ken 
that  ony  man  wha  says  Dinny—wha  says  Mr.  Riley 
— maks  his  livin"  sellin'  whiskey,  to  ken  he's  a'the- 
gither  wrang.     For  he  doesna'.     That's  only  a  pairt 
o'  what  he  sells," he  declared  exultantly  ;  "an  impor- 
tant pairt,  nae  doot,  but  no'  by  ony  means  the  whol 
o'  't.     He   does  sell  whiskey,   nae   doot— but  that 
doesna'  cover  it.     We  a'  ken,  Moderator,"  the  light  of 
victory  on  his  face  as  he  went  on,  "  that  that  doesna' 
constitute  a  complete  statement  o'  the  case.     There's 
tnuckle  mair— does   he  no'  sell  beer,  an'  cider,  an' 


fl 


1 


28o 


THE   HANDICAP 


lager,  an'  nine,  an'  porter,  an'  gin,  an'  stout,"  he  went 
flueu..y  on,  "  an'  ale,  an'  brajidy,  an'  John  CoHinses, 
an' " 

"  Ve're  repeatin',  Andra',"  came  from  a  quiet  but 
most  genial  looking  man  in  the  corner. 

"An'  ye  left  oot  higli  wines,"  complained  one 
with  a  decidedly  Scottibh  lacj ;  he  reached  out  and 
touched  Mr.  Kersell's  sleeve  as  he  spoke,  the  omis- 
sion being  serious. 

"  I  dinna'  like  them,"  retorted  he  who  had  the 
floor—"  they're  no'  fit  for  a  man  to  drink.  An',  as 
I  wao  oayin',  Moderator,  Mr.  Laidlaw  was  perfectly 
richt.  We're  indebted  till  him  for  a  term— a  generic 
term,  Moderator,"  the  word  coming  with  a  trium- 
phant jerk,  as  when  some  protesting  fish  is  landed  on 
the  grass,  "  a  term  that  covers  a'  thae — thae  bever- 
ages, that  I've  mentioned.  There's  mair  forbye. 
Moderator,  as  nae  doot  ye  ken  yirsel',"  tuining  con- 
fidentially towards  Dr.  Leitch — "  but  that's  a'  that 
occurs  till  me  just  at  the  moment.  Noo  I  think  we 
can  gang  on  wi'  the  debate,"  as  he  sat  down  with  the 
air  of  a  man  who  has  at  last  cleared  the  deck  for 
action. 

The  original  speaker  resumed  the  argument  so 
vigorously  interrupted,  and  again  pressed  the  con- 
tention that  St.  Andrew's  new  church  building,  when 
at    last    it   should  stand   complete,   must   have   no 


'•The    INJUDEECIOUS    USE"      281 

malodour  of  contributions  from  such  a  doubtful 
source.  Two  or  three  supported  him,  and  for  a  time 
it  looked  as  if  the  vote  would  be  unanimous  to 
repudiate  Dinny's  hundred  dollars. 

But  gradually  the  Scottish  instinct  began  to  make 
itself  felt. 

"  We  hae  to  be  carefu',  nae  doot,"  ventured  one 
canny  Scot,  "  as  to  what  kind  o'  money  we  tak'  for 
the  work  o'  the  Kingdom  ;  but  it  seems  fair  fearsume 
to  gie  up  a  hunnerd  dollars — when  we  hae  it  richt  in 
cor  haun',  ye  ken.  That's  the  pint,  Moderator;  it's 
no'  as  if  Mr.  Riley  had  promised  us  the  siller — that 
wad  be  quite  anithcr  matter.  But  he's  /«/>/  it,  ye 
ken — we  hae  it  oorsel's.  An'  to  send  back  the 
money,  the  cash.  Moderator — it's  like  temptin'  Prov- 
idence, to  dae  a  thing  like  that." 

The  Moderator  was  about  to  make  some  remark  ; 
but  before  he  had  framed  the  words,  another  worthy 
yeoman  was  on  his  feet.  "  There's  guid  sense  in 
what  has  juist  been  said,"  he  allowed  cautiously  ;  "  it 
seems  a  "lir  dispensation  o'  an  inscrutable  Provi- 
dence," dwelling  piously  on  the  words,  "  to  hae  to 
gie  up  a  hunnerd  dollars — no'  a  subscription,  as  was 
pinted  out,  but  the  money  itsel' ;  it  seems  dark  an' 
mysteerious  to  hae  to  dae  a  thing  like  that.  But  't's 
cor  duty  to  gie  up  for  conscience'  sake,  ye  ken — like 
the  martyrs  did  afore  us.     An'  there's  anither  way  o* 


ii 


28a 


THE   HANDICAP 


Wvi'-S- 


lookm'  at  it.  forbye.  an'  it's  this ;  if  we  dinna'  send 
It  back,  there's  a  wheen  o'  them  in  the  congregation 
-the  prohibeetion  folk,  ye  kcn-that  winna'  gie  us 
onything  at  a'.     An'  then  we'd  lose  mair  nor  we'd 
sain."  he  affirmed,  looking  around  cautiously  on  the 
thoroughly  interested  bretl;:.,,.     "  Sae  I  think  we'd 
uetter  gie  up  that  .aoney-for   conscience'  sake- 
we're  tellt  we  should  tak'  joyfully  the  spoH.n'  o'  oor 
goods,"  with  which  pious  conclusion  the  far-seemg 
sa.nt  sank  into  his  seat  with  a  sigh,  such  as  com- 
monly marked  the  closing  words  of  these  solemn 
disputants. 

"  Moderator."  and  the  tone  commanded  attention 
-for  there  was  a  note  of  purpose  in  it;  "  I've  lis- 
tened  to  a-  that's  been  said-an'  I  agree  wi'  the 
previous  speakers  that  it  seems  a  grievous  hardship 
to  g.e  back  ony  mone.^  that's   been  put  intil  oor 
haun's.     It's  ower  hard  to  get.  Moderator,  as  ye  ken 
But  I  dinna'  think,  for  a'  that,  it  ocht  to  be  devoted 
to  the  buildin'  o'  a   h.^ose   for   the   worship  o'  Al- 
michty  God.     An'  I've  been  thinkin'  o'  a  way,  Mod- 
erator, that'll   gie   us   a   conscience   void  o'  offense 
afore   God   an'  man-an'  let   us    keep   Mr.  Riley's 
money  intil  the  bargain.     It  wadna'  dae  to  build  a 
kirk  wi'  't_that's   a   spceritual  purpose.     But  I'm 
th.nkin'.  Moderator,  I'm  thinkin'  ,t  wadna'  be  a  bad 
Idea  juist  to  keep  the  money,  an'  use  it  for  some  ither 


■=5W*^\"?.r 


:8i 


an 


"The    INJUDEECIOU<.    USE' 

tiling.     Tliei-c'll  be  sheds  tu  build  for  tlic  beasts 

there'll  be  the  grounds  aboot  the  kirk  to  level  an'  fix 
up—an'  there'll  be  a  wood-shed  to  be  built.  Noo, 
Moderator,  none  o'  tliae  things  is  speeritual  in  their 
natur' ;  an'  we  can  juist  haun'  Mr.  Riley's  hunnerd 
dollars  ower  to  the  trustees— they're  no'  a  speeritual 
body,  ye  ken— then  we'll  bring  nae  disgrace  on  the 
congregation,  an'  we'll  hae  the  money  intil  the 
bargain." 

This  made  a  sensation.  Every  elder  lapsed  into 
the  silence  of  reflection  for  a  moment,  gradually 
breaking  it  to  convey  his  opinion— and,  in  most 
cases,  his  admiration— to  his  neighbour. 

"  I  hae  a  better  idea,  I'm  thinkin',  Moderator," 
suddenly  announced  an  elder  of  iron-clad  appear- 
ance, known  as   Watty  Barker.     "  Why  canna'  we 
gie  the  money  to  Foreign  Missions  ?— Dinn>  wadna 
mind,  an'  thae  heathen  buddies'U  never  ken  the  dif- 
ference.    They  wad   never  ken  he   made  it  sellin' 
'  speerituous  liquors,'  to  quote  the  words  o'  Mr.  Laid- 
law— they  never  heard  tell  o'  The  Buck  Taivern,  but 
there's  naebody  in  these  pairts  but  wha  kens  aboot 
it.     An'  then,  Moderator,  we  wadna'  hae  to  answer 
till  the  sin  o'  wastery  in  the  Judgment  Day,"  casting 
a  final  look  of  appeal  upon  his  assembled  colleagues 
as  he  resumed  his  seat.     "  An'  I  hae  anither  idea, 
Moderator,"  he  resumed,  leaping  to  his  feet  again 


M 


"'•'  ■.•;«.  .^  ■' 


rfiT 


w 


m 


I 


2>4 


THE   HANDICAP 


before  the  floor  was  taken ;  "  wc  a'  ken  Mr.  Riley's 
in  sair  financial  trouble — an'  they  say  the  mortgage 
is  gacin'  to  be  closed  on  him,  an'  he'll  be  sold  out  o' 
a'  ho  has.  Weel,  Moderator,  if  there's  ony thing 
owcr  an'  above  the  mortgage,  could  he  no'  gic  us  the 
hunncrd  out  o'  (hat.'' — an'  then  there'd  be  nae 
scandal  i'  the  kirk — that  wadna'  be  frae  the  sale  o' 
spterituuus  liquors,  or  liquors  o'  ony  ither  kind,"  re- 
suming his  seat  once  more  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  had  propounded  two  solutions  of  the  problem, 
either  one  of  which  should  be  eminently  satisfactory. 

Then  flowed  the  stream  of  talk  afresh,  each  and 
every  ^  igestion  receiving  copious  and  profound 
discussion.  At  length  the  matter  came  to  vote; 
and,  by  a  fairly  substantial  majority,  it  was  resolved 
to  decline  Dinny's  proffered  gift. 

But  before  the  court  had  adjourned,  and  while  the 
desultorj'  firing  that  marks  the  close  of  all  such  con- 
tests was  still  in  progress,  a  voice  from  the  back  of 
the  room,  near  the  window,  suddenly  announced  in 
a  startled  whisper :  "  There's  Dinny  Riley  going 
down  the  road — see,  there  he  is,  right  under  that 
lamp  across  the  street!" 

"  Call  him  in — why  shouldn't  we  call  him  in  and 
talk  to  him  ourselves  ? "  one  of  the  younger  men 
exclaimed  impulsively. 

The  session  clerk,  burning  with  the  spirit  of  his  of- 


;  ''■yt'"  ,t-'f  .^.Jbm*-'  ..'■": 


The    INJUDEECIOUS    USE"      28s 


ficc, 


:,  confirmed  the  bii^i;cstion  cordially.  "  I'll  con- 
vey till  liini  the  decision  o'  the  court,"  he  volunteered, 
a  tjreat  cheerUilness  behind  the  j^reat  solemnity. 

So  thus  it  came  about  that  a  minute  or  two  later 
found  Dinny,  still  ;,Ml)in^  with  surprise  at  t!ie  unex- 
pected '-unitnons,  standin^j  before  \)v.  l.eitch  and  the 
assemiy.cd  elders.  The  Moderator  ij-ide  luni  bi* 
seated,  but  Uinny  declined  with  a  couji-sy  and  with 
muttered  thanks.  So  he  stood  atnon^'  tlieiii,  hi^  old 
felt  hat  in  his  hand,  turning'  it  round  and  round  Ijy 
the  rim,  as  he  surveyed  the  faces  before  him.  l^ut 
ever  and  again  his  gaze  returned  and  rested  on  the 
tender  and  placid  features  o"  the  a^^ed  minister,  whose 
glance.  S'>  keen  and  stern  a  minute  before,  seemed 
now  to  rest  in  fullness  of  compassion  and  yearning  on 
the  embarrassed  stranger. 

While  the  clerk,  with  more  difficulty  than  he  had 
anticipated,  communicated  to  their  v..  .or  the  mind 
of  the  elders  regarding  his  subscription,  Dinny  stood 
with  head  bent  low ;  and  it  was  a  minute  or  two  be- 
fore he  spoke. 

"  Did  annybody  here  say  I  didn't  keep  a  dacent 
tavern?"  he  asked  at  length,  in  a  low  and  almost 
trembling  voice,  his  head  but  slightly  raised. 

One  of  the  elders,  perhaps  two  of  them,  disavowed 
the  suggestion.     The  others  concurred. 

"Or  does  anny  av  yez  think  ye  didn't  get  yer 


iji 


'i| 


% 


F'^i,  I  ■^^3r'.P*'-"^-t-.ft¥^i^^J.'M. 


386 


THE   n/l\D/C^P 


money's  worth  ?  "  he  pursued  gently.     And  with  the 
same  result. 

"  Or  that  I  iver  put  anny  wattci  in  what  yez  took 
to  dUrink?"  looking  f.ankly  up  this  time,  and  sur- 
vt>mji  the  rather  startled  faces  of  the  elders.  Deep 
silence  gave  him  answer. 

•'  That's  what  hurted  me  the  most— when  1  first 
heard  tell  from  Andy  Orr  that  yez  ^  ,re  go,n'  to  go 
back  on  me,"  Dinny  went  on  plaintively,     «  I  cud  a' 
stood  it,  if  it  had  been  anny  other  crowd  o'  men— if 
it  had  been  the  Mcthudy's,  or  the  JJaptists-or  even 
the  Council,  very  few  av  them  comes  near- hand  me. 
But  to  think  it's  men  that's  frinds  an'  customers  av 
me  own-the   most   av  them,  annyway,  men  that 
knows  I  kep-   an  honest  tavern,  because  they  was 
reg'lar  in  their  attendance  at  it,  an'  seen  all  that  was 
goin-  on_thafs  what   hurts    me,   Doctor."   turning 
with    an    appealing    look    to    the   Moderator.     "I 
wouldn't  have  cared  so  much  if  they'd  been  stran- 
gers-but  for  frinds  an'  ci-.stomers  that  was  familiar 
familiar  wid  The  Puck  Tavern-most  av  them  always' 
stayed  ti"  closin'  time-to  think  it  was  them  that 
done  it.     That's  what  kind  o'  hurts  me,  Doctor,"  and 
Cany  slowly  revolved  his  old  hat  in  his  hands,  look- 
ing down  at  it  with  the  air  of  a  disappointed  man. 

The  session  clerk  took  advantage  of  the  pause  to 
rise,  not  without  precipitancy,  to  his  feet.     "  I  move 


"The   INJUDEE'UOUS    USE'      2^7 

that  we  aiijourn,"  he  said  brusquely  ;  "  the  business  u' 
the  court  i;>  at  an  eni,"  Several  niurniurcJ  approval, 
followcil  by  a  ^;cncral  ducking  of  heads  as  the  ':V.^:-i 
reached  lor  the  head-jjear  at  their  feet. 

Hut  by  this  time  Dinny's  Irish  blood  was  risinj;. 
Yet  perfect  self-control  marked  his  words  as  he 
turned  and  looked  the  session  full  in  the  face. 
"  Wait  a  minute,  won't  ye?"  he  requested;  "  I've 
seen  most  av  ycz  when  yez  weren't  in  antiy  hurry  to 
adjourn — an'  when  it  was  plenty  later  'n  this.  I 
want  to  appeal  to  ye  wanst  more.  Can't  yez  keep 
part  av  that  hunnerd  dollars  I  gave  ye  ? "  leanin^^  out 
to  them  rather  implorinj;ly  as  he  spoke.  "  Can't  yc 
keep  the  part  av  it  that  yez  gave  ycrselves  ?  Sarely 
there  couldn't  be  anny  harm  in  that.  \o\v,  near  as 
I  can  reckon  it,  thut'd  be  about  forty  dollars  out  av 
ivery  hunnerd  I  made  at  The  Huck  Tavern.  I 
wouldn't  ask  )cz  to  take  what  I  got  from  111'  un- 
godly customers — like  Judd.an'Tim  Loftus — sure  ye 
all  know  Tim  an'  Judd,  an'  manny's  ti.e  little  evenin' 
we've  all  had  together.  But  I'd  like  yez  to  keep 
what  the  elders  gave,"  he  went  0:1  earnestly  ;  "  now, 
ne'  '■,  I  can  reckon  it — from  memory,  like — I  make 
it  there's  tin  dollars  av  that  hunnerd  came  from  Mr. 
Muir;  an'  tin  more  from  Mr.  Laidlaw  ;  an'  mebbe 
about  five  from  Mr.  Kersell ;  an'  about  three  an'  a 
half  from  Mr.  Cochrane — he  wasn't  niver  very  free, 


} 


«^ 


^MrhM^^^^^m^ 


2S8 


THE   HANDICAP 


an'  most  always  waited  till  some  one  axed  him  what 
he'd  have ;  an'  then  there'd  be  tin  from  Mr.  Telfer— 
that  makes  thirty-eight  an'  a  half,  Doctor,  up  to  date," 
aftci  a  slight  pause  for  purposes  of  addition ;  •<  an' 
then— let  me  see,"  his  brows  knitted  as  the  fatal  ap- 
praisement went  silently  on  within. 

But  already  Dinny's  words  had  struck  home. 
Mr.  Laidlaw  was  now  upon  his  feet.  "  Moderator," 
he  began,  "  I  move  the  reconsideration  o'  the  matter 
afore  the  court— I'm  sure  we  a'  feel  we  didna'  hae  a 
full  discussion  o'  all  the  pints  concerned.  Forbye, 
we've  mebbe  got  new  licht." 

This  was  seconded  with  such  eagerness  that  it 
was  easy  to  infer  the  altered  attitude  of  the  elders. 
And,  despite  a  faint  protest  from  the  clerk,  Mr. 
Laidlaw's  motion  was  carried  almost  unanimously,  a 
sigh  of  relief  rising  from  the  breasts  of  not  a  few. 
Vhen  the  excitement  had  subsided  Dinny  was  not 
to  be  seen ;  slowly  backing  out,  still  revolving  his 
hat,  and  with  a  parting  nod  to  the  Moderator,  he 
had  made  good  his  escape. 

It  was  not  long  before  evidence  was  forthcoming 
that  Dinny's  words  had  hit  the  consciences  of  his 
auditors.  "Moderator,"  one  of  the  oldest  elders, 
silent  hitherto,  rose  immediately  after  to  remark, 
"I'm  thinkin'  we'd  dae  weel  to  examine  oorsel's. 
We  a'  ken  aboct  the  vote  that's  soon  to  be  ta'en,  in 


"The   INJUDEECIOUS    USE"      289 

a  few  months — aboot  New  Year  time — in  Glen 
Ridge ;  aboot  shuttin'  up  the  taiverns,  aboot  prohi- 
beetion,  ye  ken.  An'  I'm  thinkin' — after  what 
we've  heard  the  nicht — I'm  thinkin*  we  ocht  to 
pledge  oorsel's  nae  to  gang  till  ony  public  hoose  till 
the  matter's  settled.  It'll  gie  us  mair  influence  as  a 
session,  I'm  thinkin'." 

A  low  murmur  of  dissent  slew  the  cruel  thought. 

"  Weel,"  resumed  the  undaunted  one,  "  then  I'll 
move  that  the  Session  recommends  the  elders  to 
refrain  frae  the  use  o'  speerituous  liquors — in  the 
meantime,  onyway." 

There  was  a  sad  calm.  The  brelliren  knew  not 
which  horn  of  the  dilemma  was  least  to  be  desired. 
It  was  Andrew  Kersell  who  saved  alike  the  peace 
and  the  liberty  of  the  elders. 

"  Moderator,"  he  said  gravely,  amid  a  profound 
calm,  "  I  move  in  amendment  that  the  elders  be 
recommended  to  refrain  frae  the  injudeecious  use  o' 
them — an'  as  long  as  we  live,  Moderator.  If  we're 
gaein'  to  be  temperance,  let  us  be  temperance  oot 
an'  oot,"  his  face  aglow  with  zeal. 

The  hum  of  applause  that  followed  was  low  and 
deep.  "  Aye,  aye,"  could  be  heard  here  and  there 
over  the  room.  "  Aye, '  the  injudeecious  use  o'  them ; ' 
that  covers  a'  the  ground — an'  there's  nae  bigotry 
aboot  it.     Aye,  that's  fine, '  the  injudeecious  use ' !  " 


■I* 


'I 


liil 


XX 

DINNY   THE   DEBATER 

THE  fight  was  on.  And  all  Glen  Ridge  was 
divided  into  "  Prohibition "  and  •'  Anti- 
Prohibition."  Whether  the  public  bar 
should  be  abolished  or  retained — that  was  the  fiery 
question  of  the  hour. 

t.  Dr.  Leitch,  whose  trumpet  had  never  yet  given  an 
uncertain  sound  when  he  would  summon  men  to  the 
battle,  had  been  foremost  in  the  fight.  Yet,  be- 
loved though  he  was,  he  had  not  gone  unscathed. 
The  tongue  of  slander  had  not  been  still. 

It  was  late,  very  late  on  thii  particular  night, 
when  the  representatives  of  the  liquor  interests  were 
convened,  for  purposes  of  offense  and  defense,  within 
the  close-barred  doors  of  The  Queen's  Arms,  the 
proprietor  thereof,  Jock  Taylor  of  previous  mention, 
having  summoned  them  to  such  conclave  as  befits 
those  whose  craft  is  in  danger.  There  were  not 
many  of  them;  the  three  or  four  actually  engaged  in 
the  business  in  Glen  Ridge ;  two  or  three  from  the 
immediate  neighbourhood — and  one  eloquent  ad- 
vocate who  had  come  from  afar,  che   gift   of  some 

290 


DINNY   The   DEBATER 


291 


Central  Committee  whose  business  it  was  to  defend 
the  far-flung  interests  of  •*  the  Trade." 

There  was  some  Uttle  delay  before  tlie  business 
of  the  evening  actually  began,  occasioned  by  the 
tardiness  of  one  particular  man,  who,  beyond  all 
others,  was  considered  the  most  popular  and  influen- 
tial exponent  of  the  cause  they  were  met  to  cham- 
pion. That  man,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  add,  was 
Dinny  Riley,  long  time  owner  and  proprietor  of  The 
Buck  Tavern,  the  most  popular  institution  of  its  kind 
in  all  that  region. 

"  What  we  need,"  began  the  imported  eloquent 
one  after  all  were  seated,  "  is  something  that  will  stir 
the  public  conscience — something  that  will  appeal  to 
the  highest  feelings  of  the  electorate.  It's  no  good 
to  simply  say  we  want  to  continue  in  the  busi- 
ness— and  that  we're  out  for  number  one.  That 
always  brings  a  gush  of  cant  and  humbug  from  the 
preachers  and  others,  about  men  spending  money 
over  the  bar  that  their  children  need  for  shoes  and 
food,  and  all  that  sort  of  rot.  And,  of  course,  when 
they  get  off  on  that  kind  of  twaddle  there's  no  argu- 
ing with  them — that's  beyond  all  reason." 

"  Well,  get  at  the  point,"  interrupted  one  of  the 
party. 

The  imported  one  looked  oracularly  at  his  hearers. 
"  We've  got  to  take  higher  ground,"  he  said  inipress- 


■*!, 


m 


ill 


292 


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ively ;  "  we've  got  to  lift  the  debate  to  a  loftier 
level,  don't  you  see?  Personally,  I  ahva\\i  find  the 
Liberty  line  pays  best.  Ring  the  changes  on  how  a 
law  of  this  kind,  if  it's  carried,  interferes  with  the 
freedom  of  the  subject ;  '  British  Liberty,'  that's  the 
line,  gentlemen — that's  what  fetches  them — show 
how  intolerable  it  is,  in  a  free  country,  for  any  one 
to  say  what  a  man  shall  or  shall  not  put  into  his  own 
stomach.  '  Britons  never,  never,  shall  be  slaves  ' — 
that's  the  idea,  you  know.  That's  the  battle-cry  that 
tells  in  a  contest  of  this  kind.  There's  lots  of  other 
good  ones,"  he  went  on  confidentially ;  "  '  a  little 
wine  for  your  stomach's  sake,'  and  the  water 
that  was  turned  into  wine — they're  both  good 
battle-cries;  but  this  here  Liberty  one  beats  them 
all." 

H'  paused,  noting  with  satisfaction  the  admiration 
en  the  faces  before  him.  On  all  but  one,  that  is — 
for  something  in  Dinny's  expression  was  far  from  re- 
assuring. Indeed,  so  pronounced  were  the  orator's 
misgivings  that  he  leaned  over  to  ascertain  just  what 
it  meant.  "  Perhaps  our  friend  here — Mr.  Riiey,  I 
believe — who  has  been  a  Ion  ;  time  in  the  business, 
will  tell  us  how  the  idea  strikes  him  ?  " 

Dinny  sat  up  very  straight.  "  Like  a  rotten 
egg,"  he  said  without  moving  a  muscle. 

"  Hi ! "  cried   the   orator,   unable  to   conceal  his 


DINNY    The   DEBATER 


293 


emotion  ;  "  what's  that  you  say,  Mr.  Riley  ?  "  leaning 
forward  further  than  before. 

"  Like  a  two-year-old  egg,"  Dinny  revised,  imper- 
turbable as  a  statue ;  "  it  makes  ye  hold  yer  nobe," 
sniffing  violently  the  while ;  "  it's  old,  that  there  idea 
av  yours — an'  it's  rotten — an'  it's  a  lie,"  he  con- 
cluded, shutting  his  lips  together  like  a  trap. 

Then  was  the  commotion  loud  and  high.  Hy  the 
time  it  had  partly  subsided  Uinny  was  in  fine  fettle. 
His  voice  rang  out  above  the  din.  "  I'm  agin  this 
prohibition  law,"  he  began  tersely,  "  an'  I'm  goin'  to 
fight  it  to  a  finish — but  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  a  damn 
hypocrite.  I  ain't  goin'  to  make  a  livin'  show  av 
myself  afore  men  an'  angels,  pertendin'  to  be  lyin' 
awake  nights  for  fear  some  one  won't  get  their  lib- 
erty, when  iverybody  knows  it's  Dinny  Riley  I'm 
lookin'  out  fer.  That  there  liberty  rot,"  he  snorted 
contemptuously,  "  the  very  smell  av  it's  enough — if 
we're  goin'  to  fight,  I  say,  let's  fight  honest,"  casting 
a  very  defiant  glance  towards  his  audience  as  he 
concluded. 

"  Dinny's  right,"  suddenly  sang  out  one  of  the 
company,  the  richest  of  them  all,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
a  repulsive  looking  creature  who  had  enriched  him- 
self by  a  refinement  of  cruelty  and  with  the  aid  of 
methods  that  a  decent  devil-fish  would  have  scorned. 
"  There  ain't  goin'  to   be  no  preachin'  in  this  cam- 


.  t' 


:i 


294 


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paign — not  if  I  can  help  it.  An',  besides,  I  know  a 
far  better  way.  That's  what  brought  me  here  to- 
night. It's  a  winner,  mind  ye,"  lowering  his  voi(  e 
as  he  i-'-oceeded  to  develop  his  plan,  "  an'  I'll  tell  ye 
what  it  is.  T'lis  here's  around  Christmas  time," 
he  went  on,  eager  to  discharge  his  message,  "  an' 
what  I  say  is  this  ;  we've  got  to  make  a  pool,  an' 
e 'ery  man's  got  to  chip  in — I'll  give  a  hundred 
myself — and  we'll  raise  a  pile  that'll  knock  them 
temperance  cranks  into  next  week.  This  money, 
mind  you,"  leaning  out  imi)ressively  as  he  spoke, 
"  this  money's  to  go  for  charity ;  every  last  cent 
of  it ;  to  be  distributed  among  the  poor,  to  get  'em 
Christmas  baskets,  an'  buy  coal,  an'  get  'em  good 
warm  clothing,  an'  everything  lik ,"  that.  That's  what'U 
beat  them  temperance  cranks  •  that's  what'Il  knock 
their  eye  out — we'll  beat  'em  to  a  finish.  An'  I've 
got  the  cash  right  here  for  my  share — an'  we'll  start 
the  subscription  right  now,"  be  concluded,  looking 
this  way  and  that  as  if  in  search  of  pen  and  ink. 

A  \i\\7.7.  of  mild  approval  brolce  from  his  fellow 
craftsmen.  One  of  them  liad  already  produced  a 
sheet  of  paper,  unfolding  it  flat  upon  the  table,  when 
like  a  bolt  frcm  tlio  blue  an  Irish  voice  rang  out  with 
a  note  '  ; : 

"'  -i' hypocrites  !"  Dinnj' now   upon  his 

iing  like  a  coal  of  fire.    "Did  ye  fetch 


fbf 


DINNY    The    DEBATER 


295 


honest  men  here  to-night  to  plaster  them  wid  insults  ? 
This  here  talk's  enough  to  make  tli     divil  laut^h," 
he    declared   with   infinite   contempt ,   "  why   don't 
we  own  up  we're  out  after  the  stuff,  like  wc  all  know 
we  are.     Mcbbe  we'll  lose  our  license — I  don't  be- 
lieve   it — but    annyway,    we'll    keep    our  d'cency. 
D'ye  want  to  make  ivery  honest  tavern-keeper  the 
laughin'   stock  o'  the  countryside  ? "  he  demanded 
hotly.     "  Sure  we  all  know  there's  not  a  man  in  forty 
counties  that's  done  as  much  to   make  people  poor 
— an'  to  take  the  bread  out  av  the  mouths  av  little 
shavers — an'  to  take  the  shirt  aff  men's  backs  —an' 
to   quinch   ivery   fire   in    ivery    house     he    could : 
there  ain't  a  man  in  Canady  as  handy  at  it  as  that 
there  spalpeen  that's  axin'  us  to  turn  round  an'  make 
hypocrites   av   ourselves — what  the  divil  d'ye  think 
we  are,   arnyhow?"  he   demanded,  moving  in   his 
wrath  over  to  the  ingenious  author  of  the  suggestion 
that  had  so  aroused  his  ire. 

But  suddenly  a  new  actor  leaped  upon  the  stage. 
It  was  Jock  Taylor  liimself. 

"  Ye're  all  talkin'  like  fools,"  he  broke  out  hotly, 
and  the  huge  animal  face  of  the  man  glowered 
with  malignant  cunning ;  "  all  your  rot  about 
liberty — an'  this  baby-mush  about  givin'  to  the 
poor.  Listen  to  me — I'll  talk  some  sense.  What 
we've    got   to   do,   to   kill   this   fool   movement   to 


i  I 


296 


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If 't 

\\\ 


put   us   out   o"  business,  is   to  kill   the  men   that's 
leadin'  it.     We've  got  to  put  t/um  out  o'  business 
—an'  we  can.     Ever>'body  knows  there's  just  one 
man  that  can  beat  us."  his  eyes  gleaming  .avagely ; 
"  an'    he's   a   damn  preacher— we  all  know  that— a 
Presbyterian  preacher.     I  ain't  askcered  to  spit  out 
his  name,  either— it's  Dr.  Leitch.     An'  I  can  settle 
him   all   right."  Jock  went   on.  his   breath   coming 
short;  "I've  got  him  where  I  want  him.     He's  our 
meat,  I  tell  you— listen  here;  I've  got  proof  he  sent 
one   night   to   a  tavern— it  was  The  Buck— an'  the 
man  he  sent  bought  a  bottle  o'  brandy,  an'  took  it 
away  with  him— an'  he  took  it  to  where  the  preacher 
was.     I've  got  the  proof  for  it.     An'— you  know  the 
rest— we  don't  need  to  say  any  more,  that'll  do  tne 
trick— it's  doin'  it  now.     I'll  bet  the  drinks  for  the 
crowd  that  there  ain't  a  man  here  that  hasn't  heard 
it.     I  seen  to  that,"  a  leer  of  hate  and  cunning  on  his 
face,  as  he  looked  around  the  circle. 

He  was  not  disapp.  .nted  in  his  expectation.     They 
had  all  heard  of  it. 

Nearly  ah  eyes  were  now  turned  on  Dinny.  He 
was  still  upon  his  fee,.  "  Yes,"  he  began,  and  his 
tone  was  so  low  that  tho^e  about  him  had  all  they 
could  do  to  hear  ;  "  yes.  Dr.  Leitch  ^/V/send  to  my 
tavern_an'  he  did  get  a  little  flask  ;  an'  it  was  brandy 
—an'  .he  boy  that  get  it,"  after  a  long  pause.  ••  did 


^K" 


DINNY    The    DEBATER 


291 


take  it  to  Dr.  Leitch.  An"  that  tlictc  boy's  fatlicr 
— hia  name  was  Boucher — he  was  dyin',"'  he  added 
slowly,  sadly,  looking  down  ;  "  consumption,  it  was 
— an'  his  doctor  ordered  him  a  little  stimylant — an" 
the)-  didn't  have  anny  money.  Did  ye  know  that  '" 
the  voice  rising  a  httle  as  he  turned  towards  Taylor. 

Jock  murmured  sometlnng  about  rumours  he  had 
heard — he  didn't  know  if  they  were  true. 

"  That's  all  right,"  Dinny  interrupted,  speaking 
with  difficulty ;  "  an'  Dr.  Leitch  paiu  for  that  there 
stimylant — like  he  done  for  annythingthey  had  to  eat 
— an'  he  stayed  wid  them  till  the  breath  was  out  av 
Boucher's  body — an'  he  prayed  wid  them  an'  com- 
forted them,  like;  an'  he  paid  ivery  penny  av  the 
funeral  expenses — an'  it's  yerself  that's  a  damn  liar, 
Taylor,  ye  varmint,  ye,"  as  he  sprang  at  the  man 
beside  him,  clutching  him  by  the  throat  and  felling 
him  with  one  blow  to  the  floor.  "  Ve'U  do  the 
trick,  will  ye  ? — I'll  larn  ye  a  trick  or  two,  blackenin' 
a  man  that  ye  ain't  fit  to  tie  his  boots.  An'  ye've 
got  the  proof,  have  ye? — I'll  prove  ye,  yc " 

Bat  by  this  time  the  howls  of  Taj'lor  had  sum- 
moned tc^  his  aid  several  of  his  brethren.  Dinny 
fought  savagely  for  permission  to  finish  the  work  he 
had  so  earnestly  begun ;  but,  overborne,  he  was  at 
last  compelled  to  desist.  A  feeble  effort  was  then 
made  to  restore  order  from  the  chaos.     One  or  two 


i 


Ml 


i 


f 


398  THE  HANDICAP 

suggested   reconciliation—whereat    Dinny   laugh.-d. 

There  was  some  desultory  conversation, a  little  frantic 

enthusiasm,  a  faltering  appeal  from  the  orator,  and 

then  they  adjourned  sine  die. 

The  lamp  burned  late  that  night  in  Dinny's  room 
at  The  Buck  Tavern.     Poor  Dinny.  he  was  but  a 
sorry  hand  w.th  the  pen  ;  and  composition  was  agony. 
The  fruit  of  his  toil  was  apparent  the  next  morn- 
ing.    Beside  the  post-ofifice  door,  on  a  pole  adjoining 
the  livery  stable,  in  front  of  The  Buck  Tavern,  on  the 
counters  of  a  few  stores  whose  proprietors  Jock  had 
robbed,   outside    two    blacksmith    shops— and    on 
twenty  or  thirty  available  posts  and  places-securely 
tacked  at  each  corner,  was  the  following  statement 
and  appeal  that  Dinny  had  composed,  written,  and 
copied  through  that  long  night  of  toil : 

^;i'I.^f^^'^'  ^°  the  illection  your  vote  an  influens  s 
rispectfully  requested  to  vote  agin  closin  the  Buck 
lavern  up.  ^i<v,n. 

tinu^d  on  ^"""^  Patternage  is  requested  to  be  con- 

DlNNY  RiLEV 

p   c      T  J  ,  Propryetor 

cf/;  A  IfS-yds  to  that  their  yarn  Jock  Taylor 

started  agm  Dr.  Leitch  Jock  Taylor  is  a  liar 

D.  R. 


XXI 
H^HEN  A    IVOMAN   PLEADS 

IT  was  close,  very  close,  to  the  day  of  the  elec- 
tion. Bright  and  beautiful,  one  of  the  earliest 
days  of  the  opening  year,  the  verv  \Vf.-ather 
seemed  to  know  that  important  business  was  drawing 
near.  Dinny  was  early  astir,  although  it  had  been 
late  the  previous  night  before  he  had  sought  his  rest. 
For,  as  the  contest  deepened,  Dinny  had  thrown  him- 
self with  ever-increasing  eagerness  into  the  fray ;  and 
the  liquor  party  had  more  and  more  come  to  reckon 
him  as  the  strongest  force  in  their  favour, 

"  Nearly  ready  for  breakfast,  father  ? "  came  Nora's 
voice  from  the  little  dining-room  ;  "  everything's  on 
the  table." 

Splash!  splash!  floating  in,  told  that  Dinny's 
ablutions  were  not  yet  concluded.  A  minute  or  two 
later  he  appeared  at  the  door.  "  i  got  some  terrible 
good  news  last  night,"  he  informed  his  daughter,  still 
towelling  vigorously;  "if  we  can  only  lambaste 
them  timperance  bloods  at  the  election,  I  won't  have 
anny  more  trouble  wid  that  mortgage  on  the  tavern," 
looking  quite  tenderly  about  his  home  as  he  spoke. 

299 


!li 


JOO 


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"  Nothin'  to  speak  of,  annyway,"  as  he  flung  the 
towel  to  a  couch  on  tlie  other  side  of  the  room. 

Nora  looked  up,  her  inquiry  on  her  face. 

••  It's  the  truth  I'm  telhn"  ye,"  Diuny  went  on  ; 
"  they're  j^oin'  to  give  me  time.  Sure  my  creditors 
say  they'll  give  me  time.  An"  if  I  get  a  few  years  o' 
business — if  they're  good  years— if  I  can't  make 
enoug':  in  a  few  years  to  pav  off  that  pesky  m.  t- 
gage,  then  I'm  not  the  Uinny  kiley  I  used  to  be 
that's  all  I've  got  to  say.  Av  coorse,"  he  went  on 
criously,  "  it  all  depinds  on  whether  we  win  out  agin 
the  cranks  that's  tryin'  to  put  us  outo'  business — but 
I  f'liiik  we'll  mash  their  potaties  for  them  all  right, 
when  it  comes  to  the  bit,"  as  he  straightway  fell  to 
upon  the  porridge  Nora  had  dished  out  to  him. 

Looking  up  a  moment  later,  I  ^  glanced  at  his 
daughter's  face,  expecting  some  cheery  response. 
But  that  face  was  grave  ;  deep  seriousness  sat  upon 
il  —and  the  eye.^  that  looked  into  her  fallicr's  were 
filled  with  something  like  reproach,  )et  sc  mething 
like  yearning  too.  "  What  makes  ye  su  solemn, 
girl  ? "  he  asked  a  little  impatiently ;  "  s-ire  ye 
look  like  there  was  a  wake,  an'  ye  didn't  get  axed 
to  it." 

Nora  gazed  for  a  full  half-minute  before  she  spoke. 
"  If  you  keep  on  at  the — the  business— father,  I  sup- 
pose the  others  will  do  the  same,  won't  ihey  ?  " 


^TStSP^^J^f^^l^TS? 


--...Wr.,^l:'^-bJ^ 


I   • , :  ^i/.- ■*,  ,v  i\. 


11^ HEN   A    h'OMAS   PLLADS      }o\ 
Sartin  burc,"  responded  Diimy.ai-uiuin^  a  jaunt)- 


air. 


"Jock  Taylor,  at  the  (Juccn's  Aimsj?  And  that 
new  one — Harney  I*'l)nn,  at  the  Cuminercial — they'll 
both  keep  on  their  bars,  won't  they  ?" 

Dinny  nodded,  too  busily  employed  upon  the  egg 
before  him  to  look  up. 

«*  Well,  they're  both  vultures,"  Nora  responded 
with  unwonted  warmth,  her  tone  low  and  tense — 
•'  especially  that  Flynn  man  ;  I  hate  him  the  most." 

Dinny  glanced  up  inquiringly. 

"I  was  at  Hanton's  last  nigl'.,"  she  went  on. 
"  They  have  a  little  boy,  as  you  know  ;  he  -ed  to  be 
in  my  class.  And  he  has  hip  disease — he's  in  bed. 
Well,  a  few  of  us  tried  to  brighten  up  his  Christmas  a 
little.  We  got  some  bits  of  toys  for  little  Tod — a  lit- 
tle toy  watch,  and  a  Noah's  ark,  and  a  horn,  I  think 
— some  little  trinkets,  anyway.  And  do  you  know 
what  happened  them,  father  ? — do  you  know,  I  say  ?  " 

Dinny  looked  up  in  amazement.  The  words 
seemed  to  come  out  aflame;  and  wlien  he  ca.^t  !li.^ 
eyes  towards  his  daughter,  they  beheld  her  leanini; 
far  over  the  table  towards  him,  the  lithe  form  rigid  in 
its  intensity,  the  cheeks  flaming,  the  eyes  glowing 
with  a  weird  fire  that  burned  through  the  veil  of 
tears,  the     ps  trembling  with  passion. 

«  No — sure    '    don't    know  ann}thin'   about   it," 


\l 


-■n^'. 


}02 


THE  HAND/CAP 


i9l!S r M  ■'  .     \i  ' 


If 

ill 


Dinny  answered ;  but  the  words   faltered  as  they 
came. 

"  You  know  that  httle  Tod's  father—you  know 
that  Dick  Hanton  drinks—that  he  has  for  years  ?  " 

Dinny  nodded.     He  was  strangely  pale. 

"  Well,  I  was  there  last  night.  Mrs.  Hanton  sent 
for  me-and  I  found  poor  little  lame  Tod  crying  and 
sobbing  as  if  his  heart  would  break.  And  he  kept 
calling  for  his  toys  :  '  I  want  my  watch  and  chain  '— 
I  remember  that  particularly;  I  shall  never  forget  it 
till  I  die.  And  do  you  know  what  had  happened  to 
his  toys,  father  ?  " 

Dinny  spoke  never  a   word.     But  his  face  was 
white. 

"  His  father  took  them  while  he  was  asleep— he 
had  to  slip  the  little  watch  from  under  Tod's  pillow 
—and  he  took  them  to  Barney  Flynn's   barroom. 
Ami  he  gc  t  drink  for  them,"  the  girl  standing  now, 
her  quivering  figure  drAwn  to  its  full  height,  her  hands 
held   before  her  face  as  if  in  horror,  yet  somehow  in 
a  strange  uncanny  way  pointing  towards  her  father. 
"  And    he  came  home  while  I  was  there— he  was 
drunk— and  little  Tod  kept  crying  for  his  toys.     And 
he  told  Tod's  mother  to  make  him  stop  it ;  she  fell 
to  crying,  her   face  buried  in  her  apron.     And   he 
came  up  behind  her— and  he  struck  her  where  she 
stood,"  the  words    coming   out  v  -th   a  gasp,  each 


!.y 


IVHEN  A    WOMAN  PLEADS     }0) 

one  expelled  by  itself  from  the  quivering  lips. 
«.  And " 

"  By  God,  I'll  kill  him,"  came  like  the  outbreak  of 

a  storm  from   Dinny.     He  too  was  standing  now 

and  his  livid  face  was  working  as  if  sudden  convulsion 
had  seized  him.  "  I'd  choke  him  like  a  weasel — an' 
I'll  smash  Flynn's  face— I'll  help  him  to  where  he'll 
sizzle  like  a  herrin',  the  damn  man-eater  that  he  is," 
smiting  the  table  with  his  ponderous  fist  till  the  egg 
that  iDinny  had  forsaken  leaped  from  its  plate  and 
crashed  upon  the  floor.  It  was  a  strange  sight ; 
there  they  stood,  the  father  and  the  daughter,  their 
features  strangely  similar,  and  both  aflame  with  the 
selfsame  passion,  the  table  between  them  as  they 
stood,  one  at  either  end,  their  faces  flashing  each  to 
the  other.  The  one  was  aglow  with  a  strong  man's 
wrath,  heavily  lowering  ;  the  other,  the  face  of  youth 
and  beauty,  burning  with  a  flame  no  less  intense,  an 
anger  no  less  passionate. 

"  Wait,"  she  cried  hotly,  holding  up  her  hand  to 
silence  him,  "  wait— for  I'm  not  through  yet.  While 
we  were  sitting  there — after  he  struck  her— Jennie 
came  home.  Jennie  is  their  eldest  girl — and  she 
works  at  the  Queen's  Arms.  Well,  she  came  in — 
and  s>e  was  crying  bitterly  too ;  we  were  all  cryiii;];, 
father.  And  I'll  tell  you  what  it  was  about.  Jennie 
waits  on  table  at  the  Queen's  Arms,  at  Jock  Taylor's 


}\  1 


?fe.  ^^WSiS^i 


^•iv'^viiSjfe^-ti'Jtfc*.-  »4?Aift-, 


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tll:l 


iil 


tavern.     You  know  that.     Well,  she  came  in_and 
she  undid  the  corner  of  her  shawl,  crying,  and  she 
gave  her  mother  a  dollar  and  fifteen  cents-that  was 
all  she  had.  out  of  her  whole  month's  wages.     And 
the  mother  needed  the  money  so-it  nearly  killed 
me  to  see  the  poor  thing's  pain  and  disappointment 
It  seems  Jennie's  father  nas  been  drinking  there- 
and  he  charged  a  lot  of  it-and  Taylor  kept  it  out  of 
Jennies  'usages;'  the  words  coming  out  again  with  a 
sort  of  cry.  the  willowy  form  again  leaning  far  over 
the  table,  the  trembling  hands  again   outstretched 
towards   her  father.     «  He  kept  it  out  of  Jennie's 
wages,  father-and  she  cried  so  bitterly  when  she 
took  her  poor  pittance  out  of  her  shawl.     Oh,  it  was 
terrible,"  and  with  this  Nora  turned  in  a  flood  of 
tears,  making  her  way  towards  the  stair. 

Dinny  gazed  after  her  a  moment,  then  sank  slowly 
to  h,s  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.     For 
ten   minutes  or  more,  tumultuous   minutes,  he  re- 
mained bowed  and  silent.     Then  he  arose,  his  pale 
face  set  and  stern,  and  went  into  the  bar.     It  was 
early,  and  no  customers  had  yet  arrived.     He  un- 
lo:ked  the  till,  took  something  out.  then  went  to  the 
foot  of  the  stair  and  called  his  daughter.     She  came 
down  in  a  moment,  her  eyes  showing  traces  of  the 
storm. 

"  Here."  he  said,  in  a  strangely  gentle  voice,  "here, 


tc'^a^.'^jr-n^^c 


iVHEN  A  IVOMAN  PLEADS  305 
take  this  to  Hanton's ;  them  there  bills  you  give  to 
Jennie.  An'  this  here."  pushing  another  note  into 
her  hand,  "  I  want  ye  to  get  enough  toys  for  that 
there  little  gaffer  to  smother  himself  in—annything 
ye  can  get  anny where— an'  do  it  this  mornin'." 

Then  he  took  another  bill,  thrust  it  into  his  vest 
pocket,  and  went  out  to  the  street.  He  had  not 
long  to  search. 

"  Sam,"  he  said,  when  he  had  found  the  trusted 
crony  for  whom  he  was  looking,  "  here's  fi-  loUars, 
Sam.  Go  on  down  to  the  Commercial,  to  Barney 
Flynn's  place ;  he  got  some  toys  yesterday— from  a 
customer— a  watch  an'  chain,  I  think,  an'  a  ark,  an' 
a  whustle,  or  somethin'  like  that— an'  I  want  ye  to 
buy  'em  back— get  them  at  anny  price.  Ye  can 
keep  the  change-only  get  em  an'  fetch  them  wid 
ye,  bring  them  to  me.  I  want  them  bad,"  as  he  gave 
some  further  details  to  the  wondering  Sam. 

It  was  not  quite  half  an  hour  till  Sam  was  back. 
The  toys  were  with  him,  wrapped  in  some  stained 
brown  paper.  Dinny  took  them  solemnly,  carried 
them  in  silence  up  to  his  room  und  spread  them  on 
the  bed.  Tears  streamed  from  the  gazing  eyes  as 
he  touched  them,  one  by  one,  and  almost  rever- 
ently. 

Then  he  carefully  lifted  the  mattress,  and  stowed 
the  little  trinkets  away  beneath  it;   all  except  the 


si 
11 


^'-%. 


306  7HE   HANDICAP 

Noah's  ark,  ^vhich.  owing  to  its  size,  had  to  be 
cealed  beneath  the  bed. 


con- 


An'  it  was  his  own  father  that  done  that  thing/ 


he  murmured  in  a  broken 
oh,  God ! " 


voice;  "  his  own  daddy— 


XXII 
^HEN   THE   DEVIL    DRIVES 

FOR  nearly  a  year  previous  to  the  incident  now 
to  be  recorded.  T.m  Loftus  had  been  fighting 
a  good  fight  against  his  ancient  enemy,  the 
dnnk      For  Tin,  had  reformed.     And  the  cause  of  .t 
all  had  been  th.s-that  there  had  come  to  him.  and 

ons  sad  and  broken  wife,  the  belated  ,.ft  of  a  httle 
child;    which,    promptly    christened    Tim    by    the 

mother's  insistent  wish,  had  taken  its  place  as  the 
;dol  of  h,s  heart,  the  arrears  of  a  father  s  love  gush- 

^fher^Ur  "^  '^"^  "-'  ''"'  '''  ^''-  ^^  ^^- 
So  Tim  had  sworn  ofifl_for  the  baby's  sake    he 
vvould  drink  no  more.    Then  did  happiness  roll  back 
like  a  flood  upon  the  long  desolated  home ;  and  the 
babys     mother    rejoiced    exceedingly,    making    no 

secret  ol  her  behef  m  God-which.  after  all  il  said 
and  done,  is  the  great  and  .ndusive  creed,  beyond 
which  the  most  saintly  can  scarcely  go 

But  the  Enemy  of  Souls,  as  Dr.  Le.tch  would  have 
described  that  baneful  spirit,  was  loath  to  surrender  a 
trophy  so  fairly  won  as  Tim.  And  of  all  who  be- 
grudged Tim  his  new-found  liberty  there  was  none 
who  brooked  it  so  ill.  or  who  so  ardently  longed  to 

307 


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terminate  it,  as  Jock  Taylor,  Dispenser  of  Hospitali- 
ties at  The  Queen's  Arms  Tavern,  as  is  well  known 
already.  Especially  grievous  to  Jocl:'s  sensitive 
spirit  was  the  likelihood  that  Tim  would  even  vote 
tor  the  abolition  of  the  bar,  so  far  may  a  man  carry 
his  fanaticism  when  once  he  enters  on  that  mis- 
guided path;  beginning  as  an  abstainer,  he  soon 
deteriorates  into  a  prohibitionist,  as  reckless  of  the 
liberties  of  other  people  as  he  has  been  wasteful  of 
his  own.  This,  at  least,  was  the  doleful  view  that 
Jock  Taylor  took  of  the  situation— and  he  made  no 
secret  of  his  fear  that  Tim  would  soon  be  so  lost  to 
all  sense  of  decency  as  to  cast  his  vote  after  a  fashion 
that  would  insult  the  very  Profession  of  which  he 
had  been  once  a  prosperous  and  honoured  member. 

Thence  came  the  tragedy.  It  was  just  about  one 
week  before  the  day  of  voting  that  Tim,  his  resolu- 
tion at  the  highest  pitch,  was  passing  the  Queen's 
Arms.  Jock  accosted  him.  Tim,  responsive  to  the 
courtesy  but  still  fixed  in  his  principle,  sat  for  half 
an  hour  or  so  in  the  outer  hall  conversing  with  his 
old  time  friend. 

"  I  won't  ask  you  in,  Timmie,"  Jock  said  at  length 
— "  an'  I  won't  offer  you  any  of  the  hard  stuff;  I 
know  that's  agin  your  pledge.  But  I've  got  some  o' 
the  best  buttermilk  in  there  that  a  man  ever  put 
inside  of  him ;  got  it  from  the  milkman,  an'  he  told 


•«ia'«a?H  ^.  "Vf: 


.  -I  i^-sif.    •*(, 


IVHEX  The  DByiL  DRIVES  ,09 
me  it  came  from  the  Menzies'  far,n-so  this  is  some- 
thing extry.  for  it  looks  like  young  Mcn/.cs  m.^^iu  he 
our  next  M.  P.,"  winking  jocularly  tuuard;  T.,n 
—"that  is,  if  Dustan  don't  put  a  head  on  him. 
Wait  a  minute.  Tim,  an'  I'll  fetch  it  out." 

Thence  came  the  tragedy.  For  how  was  poor 
T.m  to  see  the  cruel  leer  on  Taylor's  face  as  he  bent 
a  moment  behmd  the  bar,  the  glass  of  buttermilk  \n 
his  hand,  pouring  into  it  a  tiny  draught  from  the 
fatal  bottle  that  Tim  had  conquered  at  such  cost  ? 

But  Tim  knew  a  moment  later.     The  first  mouth- 
ful told  him  ;  and,  with  a  dreadful  look  at  Taylor 
and  with   a   fearful  oath,  he  smashed  the  glass  to' 
atoms  on  the  floor.     But  it  was  too  late.     The  hell- 
like fiend  had  sprung  to  life  within  him.     Desperaf 
and  maddened,  he  shambled  over  to  his  enemy  as  if 
he  would  wreak  vengeance  on  him.     Taylor  Smiled 
rose,  walked  calmly  into  the  bar.      Tim  fotloz.ed  htm 
-It  was   midnight  before  he  appeared  again,  flung 
forth  by  his  destroj'er. 

Then  ensued  a  wild  week  of  riot  and  excess 
Every  cent  on  which  Tim  could  lay  his  hands  was 
spent  at  the  bidding  of  his  newly  awakened  appetite 
It  was  not  much  tnat  the  poor  fellow  could  com- 
mand ;  for  what  money  he  had  in  his  possession  the 
day  of  his  relapse  soon  found  its  way  into  Jock 
Taylor's  insatiable  till.     That  was  the  exact  moment 


!  1 


I 


' 


,f 


310 


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at  which  Jock  had  flung  his  friend  out  into  the  dark 
— when  his  last  kopek  had  been  duly  delivered 
across  the  bar. 

Tliis  waa,  among  his  friends,  the  principal  ground 
of  hope  that  Tim  would  sober  up — viz.,  that  he 
could  not  lay  his  hands  on  the  wherewithal  to  pro- 
long his  spree.  Shamelessly,  the  inward  fire  con- 
suming him,  he  importuned  friend  and  foe  alike  for 
any  pittance  that  would  feed  the  flame.  But  there 
was,  and  to  their  credit  be  it  said,  a  deep  and  wide- 
spread sense  of  pain  among  the  citizens  of  Glen 
Ridge  as  they  saw  poor  Tim  once  more  borne  out  to 
sea.  Money,  his  wite  had  none ;  all  who  cared  for 
him  refused  him  sternly  ;  Jock  Taylor  and  his  kind 
answered  all  his  piteous  appeal  with  the  assurance 
that  he  was  fit  company  for  swine,  and  spurned  him 
from  their  doors. 

To  add  to  the  bitter  misery  of  it  all,  Tim's  baby 
fell  deadly  sick  just  two  days  after  the  outbreak 
came.  The  doctor  hinted  darkly  at  the  possibility 
that  the  trouble  had  been  caused  by  the  mother's 
milk ;  which  was  from  that  mother's  breast ;  which 
breast  was  hard  by  that  mother's  broken  heart.  In 
any  case  it  was  soon  evident  that  the  sickness  was 
unto  death — and  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day 
the  little  life  fluttered  into  rest. 

It  was  the  night  before  the  funeral,  and  a  little 


^.:\  riM?,v4#li:S%^W^^;SV. : 


WHEN    The    DEI^IL    DRIVES     311 

group  of  sympathizing  friends  were  gathered  in 
Tim's  lowly  and  desolated  home.  Dr.  Leitch  was 
there,  of  course ;  bent  and  feeble  now,  but  clothed 
with  the  ever  increasing  power  of  ever  dcei>cning 
love  and  tenderness.  It  was  the  mother  who  !iad 
sent  for  him. 

IJut   Tim   had   sent  fur   Dmny — and    Dinny  was 
there.     The  next  day  vas  the  day  of  the  momentous 
vote;  but,  absorbed  though   he  was,  he   had  never 
hesitated.     In  the  hour  of  his  desolation,  of  his  fear- 
ful   struggle,   the   unhappy   Tim   had   involuntarily 
turned  to  his  old-time  friend;  forgetful  of  Dinny's 
occupation,  careless  of  his  association  with  the  dread 
thing  that  had  caused  his  ruin,  Tim  remembered  only 
the  loyal  and  loving  heart,  the  unflinching  friendship 
of  a  man  whose  presence  he  dimly  felt  would  help  to 
comfort  and  strengthen  him.     So  Dinny  had  come ; 
indeed  he  had  been  with  Tim  nearly  all  the  afternoon, 
agonized  as  he  witnessed  the  fearful  struggle  of  a  man 
torn  between  the  highest  and  the  lowest  passions  of 
his  being.     Trembling  and  gasping,  just  as  the  even- 
ing was  deepening  into  darkness,  he  had  taken  Dinny 
aside  and  piteously  craved  from  him  just  enough  of 
money  to  buy  what  would  brace  him  for  the  dreadful 
night — and  those  who   saw  Dinny's   face  when  he 
came  back,  firm  in  his  refusal,  said  it  was  like  the  face 
of  death. 


I 


^^PBWiiff^^ 


313 


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It  was  about  ten  o'clock  at  night— und  every  heart 
in  that  httli-  circle  was  athrob  u  ith  pit)- ,  for  all  felt 
the  fearfulness  of  the  grim  fight  thatTinivas  waging 
with  hi.s  enemy.  His  eyes  were  wild  and  bloudbhot, 
his  face  pale  and  haggard,  his  lips  cracked  and  dry ; 
his  whole  frame  trembled  when  he  sat,  stagj^cred 
when  he  tried  to  walk.  Thus  did  he  tread  the  wine- 
press alone. 

"  Let  us  go  in,"  Dr.  Leitch  whispered  to  the  little 
circle  ;  "  let  us  all  go  in— where  his  child  is  lying.  And 
we'll  have  a  little  prayer  beside  the  coffin— then  we'll 
come  out— and  we'll  leave  him  alone  with  the  baby- 
If  God  can  use  any  means  to  cast  the  evil  spirit  out, 
surely  He  will  use  that,"  his  voice  choking  as  he 
spoke. 

All   buued  tiieir  heads  assenting;  together  they 
went  into  the  tin)-  parluur,  Diiniy  supporting  Tim  as 
they  went.     And  there,  in  waxen  beaut)-,  lay  the  little 
child  ;  youngo-st  of  all,  yet  master  of  all ;  untutored, 
unlearned,  yet  familiar  with  the  Mystery  that  baffles 
earth's  greatest  and  wisest ;  silent,  yet  commnndinj:  all 
to  silence.     Like  one  in   royal   stale,  the  baby  la)-  in 
solemn   pomp  transcendent;  clad  in  the  sweetest  of 
white  robes  and  the  dainti-st  of  silken  shoes  procured 
by  loving  hands,   the  very  breath  of  purity  exuded 
from  the  breathless  form. 

The  simple  prayer  was  broken  by  poor  Tim's  con- 


WHEN    -The    DE^IL    DRIl^'ES 


;i ) 


vulsive  bobs.  Rising  at  its  close,  Dr.  Lcilch  led  the 
way  without.  The  others  followct! ;  then  noiselessly, 
reverently,  the  aged  minister  closed  the  iloor  aiul  lett 
thc^e  twain  alone — the  storm-tossed  man  and  the  un- 
troubled babe. 

All  rcmair.ctl  in  the  outer  room  save  Dinny. 
Chokmj;,  he  made  his  way  outside.  Walking  up  and 
down,  his  iie.id  uncovered,  he  found  himself  a  mo- 
ment lat',/  oi)[)osite  the  window  of  the  tlcalh  tlianiber. 
Unable  to  control  his  gaze,  he  permitted  it  to  rest  on 
the  scene  within.  Kivetted  and  entranced,  like  one 
under  mesmeric  power,  he  tiptoed  cIj-c  up  to  the 
window,  his  breath  coming  in  (piick  spasms  as  he 
looked.  The  spectacle  was  fearsome  to  behold.  I'or 
a  little  time  poor  Tim  stood  at  the  head  of  the  cuffm, 
gazing  upon  the  silent  face.  Then  mi;.,'hty  sobs 
shook  his  frame  ;  the  tears  coursed  down  Ins  checks 
like  a  flood  ;  lie  knelt  and  covered  th.e  baby's  brow 
with  kis.^es.  Then  he  rose  and  gazed  again  Hut 
now  his  face  was  terrible  to  look  upon ;  the  storm  of 
battle  swept  over  it,  and  the  man's  bloodshot  eyes 
seemed  to  lean  forth  as  though  they  confronted  some 
deadly  foe  actually  in  the  flesh  before  him;  great 
drops  of  sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead — once  he 
swept  his  hand  swiftly  across  it.  His  face  worked 
convulsively  ;  his  pale  lips  could  be  seen  as  they 
moved  in  some  unearthly  muttering.     Suddenly  he 


!  1  I 


514 


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m 


i 


■■I  ■? 


i 


iell  on  his  knees  as  i{  in  an  agony  of  prayer.  A 
noment  later  he  struggled  lu  his  feet  again.  Then, 
clenching  his  hands  to  his  Ijcod—he  surrendered! 
And  the  stamp  of  Eternity— and  Doum— was  on  his 
face. 

Stealthily,  the  features  relaxing  almost  to  a  grin, 
now  stiffenmg  again  m  strange  cunning  and  resolve.' 
he  came  closer  to  the  coffin  ;  avertmg  his  eyes,  lest 
they  should  behold  the  majestic  face,  he  softly  thrust 
one  hand  beneath  the  coffin  hd  that  half  covered  the 
form  within.     It  was  but  a  moment ;  the  hand  reap- 
peared—a silken  slipper  in  it.     Thrusting  it  into  his 
pocket,  back  went   the  hand  bc-ncath  the  lid  again; 
again  it  reappeared,  again  the  tiny  silken  thing  flashed 
in  the  lamphght.  and  again  the  mans  hand  went  to 
his  pocket. 

Then,  straightening  himself  and   pausing  to   get 
control,  .      walked  softly  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and 
passed  out  through  the  silent  company  to  the  porch. 
The  unconscious  watchers,  marvelling,  regarded  him 
with  silent  awe.     Dinny  crouched  low  in  the  shadow, 
the  sweat  falling  from  his  face  to  the  ground  beneath! 
Then  he  followed  him.     Stealthily,  at  a  little  dis- 
tance      '   clenched  teeth  and  painful  breath,  he  pur- 
sued Tim's  shadowy  figure  as  it  disappeared  in  the 
dark   .  .,.     It  was  easy  at  first,  for  Tim's  pace  was 
slow;  but  by  and  by-for  what  reason  let  those  tell 


aijaav  ^-ri 


U^HEN    The    DEI^IL    DRniiS      31s 

who  know  that  licll-boru  haste — the  unhappy  man 
quickened  his  gait  to  a  sort  of  shambhnj^  run,  lookiii^j 
not  to  right  or  left. 

It  was  as  Dinny  had  feared— that  was  what  liad 
brought  the  sweat  out  upon  his  brow—and  his  face 
worked  in  convulsive  spasms,  almost  as  Tim's  liad 
done,  when  he  halted,  panting,  a  few  yards  from  the 
door  of  the  Queen's  Arms,  its  solitary  light  blinking 
through  the  darkness.  Already  the  door  had 
opened,  then  quickly  closed  again— having  swallowed 
up  the  father  of  the  child  who  lay  dead  at  home 

With  catlike  tread  Dinny  crept  close  to  the  cur- 
tained window.  One  side  he  tried,  in  vain.  Swiftly 
he  sprang  to  the  farther  side  ;  the  opening  was  but  a 
seam— yet  it  was  enough.  And  the  hot  blood 
mounted  to  his  face— and  the  cold  sweat  broke  out 
afresh — and  his  parched  I'p"  -luUcrc!  he  knew  not 
what— and  the  devil  of  rage  and  contempt  and 
re\-!ige  and  strength  stormed  within  his  heart  till 

that  heart  seethed  with  madress.     For  he  saw he 

saw.  Nothing  but  two  men  !  But  one  was  behind 
the  bar,  portly  and  smiling  ;  the  other  was  before  it, 
corpse-like  and  appealing.  And  his  hand  was  ex- 
tended, pointing,  craving  as  it  pointed.  And  now  on 
the  bar — between  tlie  tuo — there  lay  a  pair  of  tiny 
silken  slippers.  And  thc-n  thc)-  disappeared—on  the 
further   side    of   th.-.t    polis!ied    bar.      And    there— 


I 


Vr.J-f 


M 


wmn^^iM^s^s  i^- 


iio 


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where  llicy  lay  a  moment  before— stood  now  a  black 
boltic,  laden  well.  And  already  Tim  was  drinking 
dcei>— and  the  great  agony,  the  savage  bitterness  of 
the  long  conflict,  was  past  and  gone. 

Dhniy  never  knew  how  long  he  crouched  there 
tiiat  night ;  whether  hours  or  minutes,  he  could  not 
have  told.     But  tliere  he  crouched,  gazmg  up  at  the 
sileni    stars— .ga;:ii,g    into    Eternity.       He    was   still 
there  when  Tim  came   out,  staggering   off  into  the 
darkness,    happy    n.ov;    in    his    maudlin    mutterings. 
This  seemed  to  rouse  Dinny  hum  his  trance.     He 
rose,  paying  no  in  cd  to  Tim,  and  crept  over  to  the 
door.     Then  he  turned  and  went  away.     His  aimless 
steps  led  him  into  the  garden  behind  the  house;  in- 
voluntarily, as  if  still  unawaked,  yet  as  if  possessed 
vith  dreamy  madness,  he  tried  liis  strength  on  a 
maple  sapling  beside  the  fence,      lie  tore  the  treelet 
Irom  Its  roots  as  tiiough  it  had  been  a  corn-stalk,  then 
bent  tile  tough  trunk  over  his  knee  and  snapped  it 
into  two.     The  might  of  his  burning  soul  seemed  to 
be  loaned,  for  this  hour  at  least,  to  the  frame  that 
was    a.r.^ady    feeh.ig    the    infirmity    of    deepeninfr 
years.     He    smiled— he   was    still    a    strong   man, 
thank  God,  even  if  so  far  from  young;  thus  ran  his 
thought.     Then  sudden  frenzy  seemed  to  seize  him 
—and  he   Hung  his   coat  from  his  back,  and  stood 
with  extended  ai  ms  beneath  the  stars.     He  felt  their 


WHEN   -The    DEyiL    D R  1  y  t: :,      ,,7 
quivering  muscks  ;  then  he  laughed,  p.t  on  \v..  c.ac 
again,  and  started  back  towards  the  dour.     I-auMu- 
his  foot  struck  snn;etiiing  that  ran^^  ahnost  v.uh  ^i 
metallic  sound;  ae  stooped,  picked  it  up_,t  ua^  the 
handle  of  a  rake,  hickory-and  h,.  Ucc  bri,;!ucn.d 
greedily  as  he  swung  it  almost  joyfully,  thcli.t  hands 
gripping    it   in    a    learful    vise.      Then    he    lau-licd 
softly    again,    loosening    his    hold,  threw  the    tlin.g 
away-always  walking  on  .  -a.^.  the  door  m  tiie 
distance. 

He  never  paused  this  time-but  walked  straight  m. 
The   door  was    still    unlocked ;    the    lamp  was    still 
burning  ,n  the  bar-but  it  was  empty.     FoUowmg 
the  sound  of  a  slight  noise.  Dinny  made  his  way 
along   the  hall,  doubtless  more  noiselessly  than  he 
knew,  and,  turning  sharply  to  the  left,  he  found  him- 
self face  to  face  with  Taylor.     The  landlord  of  tlie 
Queens   Arms    was   seated   at   a   table,  generously 
laden   with   the   features    of    a   substantial   ^.cn.,,^ 
meal,  such  as  it  was  Taylor's  custom  to  disnose  of 
before  retiring. 

Dinny  blinked  a  moment  in  the  sudden  light. 
Taylor  was  standing,  having  leaped  to  his  feet  ^vhen 
he  heard  the  footfalls  on  the  loor;  seeing  who  the 
intruder  was,  he  sat  down  again  as  if  to  resume  his 
meal.  Hut  there  was  something  terrible  in  the  face 
of  the  man  standing  at  the  door. 


1 


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3i8 


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i       i 


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"  Come  on,  Riley,"  Taylor  began  after  the  first 
surprised  greeting  was  over,  "  an'  have  some  supper 
along  o'  me.  The  family  's  all  gone  to  bed.  Here, 
have  some  o'  this  sherry,"  pushing  the  decanter  in 
the  direction  of  his  still  silent  and  unmoving  guest. 
"  To-morrow's  votin'  day,  you  know — mebbe  it's  to- 
day ;  ain't  just  sure  what  o'clock  it  is  now,  but  I 
fancy  this  is  to-morrow,"  with  a  feeble  laugh  as  he 
noticed  the  eyes  of  flame  still  fixed  on  him ;  "  an' 
we'll  just  drmk  to  our  victory  in  advance,"  he  went 
on,  his  nervousness  increasing  ;  "  an'  there  ain't  any- 
body's done  as  much  to  win  it  as  you  have,  Dinny — 
even  if  you  did  give  me  a  pretty  hard  crack,  with 
that  fracas  about  me  an'  Dr.  Leitch,  you  know — but 
you've  had  more  influence  than  all  the  rest  of  us  put 
together,"  the  words  running  into  one  another  as  he 
uttered  them.  "  Sit  down,  Riley  ;  what  the  devil  ails 
you  ? "  for  the  man  standing  in  the  door  had  never 
moved. 

A  strange  light  was  in  Dinny's  eyes,  and  they 
never  shifted  their  gaze  from  Taylor.  "  Are  you 
mad,  man  ?  "  the  latter  suddenly  demanded,  simulat- 
ing wrath  ;  "  you  act  like  that  drunken  sot  I  just  let 
out — he's  got  a  dead  kid  at  home,  but  I  guess  it's 
better  off  where  it's  gone  to,  poor  little " 

It  was  a  strange  cry,  half  of  anguish,  half  of  wolfish 
rage,  that  broke  from  Dinny's  lips ;  that  almost  broke 


WHEN    The    DEI^IL    DRIVES     319 

from  them,  at  least,  muffled  even  as  it  came,  stifled, 
so  that  none  but  they  two  could  hear  it.  But  it  came, 
something  between  a  sob  and  a  yelp,  as  he  leaped  in 
swift  noibclessness  to  where  Taylor  sat.  Towering 
above  him,  he  glowered  down  at  ■  i  a,  the  veins  stand- 
ing out  on  his  moist  brow,  his  arm  uplifted,  the  mus- 
cles standing  forth  almost  as  in  the  days  of  youth. 
Surely  Taylor  knew  what  it  was  that  had  so  mad- 
dened the  man  beside  him.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  it 
«"  true ;  but  it  was  the  movement  of  a  coward — and 
his  face,  ashy  pale,  his  blanched  lips  and  already 
sunken  eyes,  bespoke  his  surrender.  Dinny's  arm 
was  uplifted — but  he  did  not  strike.  He  stood  a 
moment,  the  terrible  eyes  transfixing  Taylor  with 
their  steel-Hke  glance.  Then  suddenly  he  paused, 
puttii  ;;  his  hands  over  his  face.  Taylor  began  to 
back  away.  Looking  again,  Dinny  gave  an  almost 
imperceptible  nod  of  his  head,  a  strange  smile  upon 
his  face  as  he  beckoned  the  wretched  man  to  follow 
him.  Turning,  he  made  his  way  slowly  back  to  the 
hall,  Taylor  involuntarily  following.  Along  the  nar- 
row corridor  he  crept,  glancing  back  once  or  twice  in 
the  semi-darkness  ;  Taylor  hurried  at  the  look. 

A  moment  later  both  men  were  in  the  barroom. 
Then  Dinny  turned,  waiting  till  Taylor  should  be 
abreast  of  him — and  together  they  walked  up  to  the 
bar.     A  lamp  stood  upon  it.     Dinny  walked  behind 


1 


h 


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I   I 


II 
li  i^' 
11 


the  counter,  his  searching  eye  sweeping  evuything 
about  him.     Suddenly  he  stopped  ;  tlicn  he  beckuucd 
Taylor  in  behind  the  bar.     The  man  obeyed.     When 
they    ucre    close  together,  the  Irishman,  with  one 
s-.vitt   breath,  blew    out   the    light.     A    niuffkd    cry 
broke  from  Taylor,  silenced  in  an  instant.     Witiiout 
a  word,  moving  m   shadowy  silence,  Dinny  groped 
his  way  to  a  half-open  drawer  below   the  siielves. 
stooped    down,  picked  something  up  ;  creeping,  he 
returned,  close   up  to   Taylor.     And  then,    without 
uord  or  sign,  the  dread  habiliments  of  death  gleam- 
ing shghtly  in  the  darkness,  he  slowly  held  the  tiny 
slippers  up  till  they  were  right  in  Taylor's  face-the 
trembling  creature  could  feel  Dinny's  hot  breath  on 
his  cheek.     A  moment  he  held  them  there,  Taylors 
liead  thrown  back  in  horror.     Then  he  let  them  fall, 
and  the  noise  of  their  falling  could  be  heard  as  they 
struck  the  floor;  wherewith,  coming  closer,  his  hand 
felt  its  swift  way  up  Taylors  chest,  up,  onward,  till  it 
crept  in  close  to  his  throat— with  a  clutch  like  the 
snapping  of  a  spring  his  fingers  closed  on  the  quiv- 
ering flesh,  and,  steadying  the  form  with  his  other 
hand,  he  backed  the  struggling  Taylor  slowly  to  the 
wall  and  held   him  as  in  a  vise  of  steel.     All  un- 
availing were  his  frantic  and  oft-repeated  efforts  at 
resistance.     There  was   no  word,  almost   no   sound 
except  a  faint  and  quickly  stifled  protest  from  the 


WHEN    The    DEVIL    DRIFES      u^i 

limp  and  terror-stricken  man — but  the  dread  process 
went  on  like  some  dim  pantomime,  and  the  breatli 
of  Doom  was  about  them  both. 

With  a  mighty  effort,  and  before  it  was  too  late, 
Dinny  .elaxeu  his  grip,  his  arms  falling  limp  to  his 
side.  Tiylor  was  pasping,  trembling.  Tlien  Dinny 
moved  back  from  him,  his  face  working  and  twitch- 
ing in  its  fearful  struggle,  the  blood  flown  from  lip 
and  cheek — but  the  ali-mastering  eyes  still  gleamed 
in  the  darkness.  Taylor  followed  him,  obedient  to 
some  nameless  bidding — and  Dinny  backed  out 
around  the  bar,  his  victim  unreleased,  till  they  both 
stood  beside  the  Avindow.  1  he  lower  i)art  was  cur- 
tained, but  the  large  upper  panes  were  open  to  the 
~ky.  And  there,  his  eye  roving  upward  at  last, 
Dinny  stood,  pointing  far  aloft  with  outreaching  arm, 
one  long  finger  extended  towards  the  distant  stars. 

"  Don't  ye  believe  there's  anny  God  ?  "  he  whis- 
pered hoarsely,  still  pointing  to  the  sky. 

Silemce  reigned,  deep  as  the  grave  itself. 

"  Don't  ye  believe  there's  anny  God  ? "  came 
again,  a  little  lower  this  time,  in  a  strange  guttural 
whisper,  a  maddened  soul  surging  through  the  words. 
He  bended  closer  to  the  cower'. ,^  man. 

Taylor  nodded ;  looked  out  of  the  window  ;  then 
looked  down. 

A  long  silence  followed.     "  I  was  goin'  to  inter- 


r 

m 

i    j- 

B 

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ft'1 

}22 


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duce  yr— when  I  came  in.  I  was  goin'  to  kill  ye," 
came  at  last  from  Dinny  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "  But 
I  won't — if  He  can  wait,  I  can,"  looking  long  and 
steadily  at  the  tranquil  stars. 

He  turned  at  last  and  moved  slowly  from  the  room. 
He  had  gained  the  hall  and  was  almost  at  the  outer 
door  when  suddenly  he  retraced  his  steps  to  where 
the  still  shuddering  man  stood  in  the  dark.  "  Lock 
that  there  door— when  I  get  out,"  his  words  scarcely 
audible,  every  one  struggling  from  between  the  teeth 
so  tightly  set. 

Then  he  crept  back  to  the  door  with  hurried  pace, 
opened  it,  and  went  out  into  the  night. 


':£r 


111 


ye," 

But 
and 

>om. 
uter 
lere 
lOck 
:ely 
;eth 

ace, 


XXIII 
'THE   BITTER    FRUIT   OF  I^ICTORY 

THE  following  day  was  a  red-letter  one  for 
Glen  Ridge.  All  through  its  busy  hours 
the  conflict  waged ;  the  jingle  of  sleigh 
bells  was  heard  on  every  hand  as  busy  partizans 
hurried  here  and  there,  bearing  the  voters  to  the 
polls.  Men  who  had  passed  fifty  years  of  deep  tran- 
quillity frankly  abandoned  themselves  that  day  to 
such  bitterness  as  moral  struggles  alone  can  breed. 
Arguments  were  bandied  back  and  forth  as  men  met 
and  tarried  for  a  moment  on  the  corners  of  the 
streets,  hurrying  on  again  to  the  business  of  the 
hour.  For  the  night  was  coming,  and  then  would 
the  verdict  of  the  day's  struggle  be  irrevocably 
fixed. 

Chief  among  the  workers  for  the  continuance  of 
the  bar  were,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  respective 
proprietors  of  the  taverns  whose  trade  was  now  in 
peril.  From  morn  till  noon,  from  noon  till  shadowy 
eve,  did  Jock  Taylor  and  Barney  Flynn  give  them- 

323 


i  il 


Hii 


.^-■,,1,1  1 L 


^Bwrrffl- 


PA 


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selves  to  the  saving  of  their  craft.  A  host  of  trusty 
henchmen  obeyed  their  bidding  and  did  all  within 
their  power  to  prosper  the  labours  of  their  hands. 
Every  tavern,  as  by  law  decreed,  was  tightly  closed ; 
but  their  owners,  upheld  by  visions  of  long  years  of 
activity  yet  before  them,  fought  as  though  that  day 
were  to  be  their  last.  But  Dinny  Riley  sat  alone 
within  his  darkened  house. 

The  evening  fell.  Nora,  returning  from  some 
trifling  errand,  was  the  first  to  hear  the  news.  Un- 
nerved and  pale,  she  sought  her  father  where  he  sat 
alone. 

"  The  By-law  's  beaten,"  she  said,  and  surely  the 
deepest  note  in  her  voice  was  sadness;  "they've 
failed  to  carry  it — the  temperance  people  acknowl- 
edge their  defeat." 

Dinny  looked  up  quickly,  but  answered  never  a 
word.  The  girl  waited ;  no  response,  no  sign,  came 
from  her  father.  She  was  about  to  turn  away,  when 
suddenly  a  noise,  like  to  that  a  mob  of  men  alone  can 
malce,  fell  upon  her  ears.  Startled,  she  went  to  the 
window,  peering  out  from  behind  the  heavy  curtain. 
A  moment  later  her  father  was  looking  over  her 
shoulder. 

Nora  was  the  first  to  interpret  the  significance  of 
the  gathering,  as  she  gazed  upon  the  jostling  crowd 
upon  the  street.     "  It's  you  they  want,  father,"  she 


7/ie    BIJIER    FRUIT   of   I^ICTORY     32s 

said  in  a  nionrcnt — "  listen,  they're  calling  for  you. 
They  want  you  to  come  outside." 

Diniiy  did  listen.  And  what  he  heard  soon  left  no 
doubt  as  to  the  purpose  and  desire  of  the  crowd. 

"  Come  on  out,  Uinny,"  a  voice  called  above  the 
din.  "Come  on — we've  beaten  the  fanatics  to  a 
finish  !  And  you're  the  man  that's  done  more  tlum 
anybody  else  to  get  us  the  victory.  Spcccii ! 
Speech !  Come  on  out,  Dinny — and  let  us  tell  you 
what  we  owe  you — you're  t!ic  man  that's  won  the 
day  for  us." 

Dinny  glanced  out  furtively  from  the  corner  of  the 
curtain.  A  great  crowd  it  was,  and  every  man 
among  them  was  evidently  the  friend  of  the  traffic  in 
which  he  was  engaged.  A  motley  throng;  sonic  in 
scant  clothing,  some  in  shabbiness  approaching  rags ; 
some  with  the  bended  backs  of  age,  some  with  faces 
flushed  and  bloated,  some  with  youthful  coun- 
tenances already  growing  hard  and  coarse.  A  score 
or  more  of  them  were  nothing  more  than  lads— and 
Dinny  shuddered  at  the  sight.  Hut  one  and  all  kept 
clamouring  for  him  amid  resounding  din. 

Dinny  groaned,  falling  back  from  the  window. 
"Who's  there?"  he  inquired  faintly  of  his  daughter; 
"  d'ye  know  anny  av  them,  Nora  ?  " 

Nora  peeped  through  again,  more  and  more  mys- 
tified by  her  father's  strange  demeanour. 


^:M 


Ll 


i        i 


326 


tHl.  handicap 


i  i: 


"  Jim  Forrest's  there,"  she  said  alter  a  pause ;  "  and 
Judd — and  CharUe  Boycc,  and  Sam  Cassidy,  and 
Pete  Garhck,"  naming  some  of  the  most  conspicuous 
devotees  of  "  the  Trade  "  in  all  the  town.  "  Pete's 
got  his  little  boy  with  hin\"  she  added. 

Dinny  suppressed  a  groan.  "  Say,  might  Barney 
Flynn  be  there  ? "  he  inquired  after  a  moment,  still 
crouching  far  back  in  the  gloom. 

Nora  looked.  •<  Yes,  Barney's  there,"  she  •'- 
swered  in  a  moment ;  "  he's  lighting  a  torch." 

Dinny  suppressed  a  couple  ot  words  that  deserved 
to  be  suppressed. 

"  Jock  Taylor  ain't  there,  is  he  ? "  glancing  up 
slightly  as  he  spoke. 

Nora  looked  again.  "  Oh,  yes,  he  is — certainly 
Jock's  there — he's  right  at  the  front.  There  he  is, 
see — smoking  a  cigar." 

Dinny  groaned  aloud,  his  face  now  buried  in  his 
hands.  Dense  silence  fell  within,  broken  only  by 
the  continued  clamour  from  without.  Then  sud- 
denly the  proprietor  of  The  Buck  Tavern  arose  and 
made  his  way  towards  the  stairs. 

"  Don't  you  want  a  light,  father  ?  "  Nora  asked  as 
he  fumbled  his  way  through  the  darkness. 

"  No,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  I  don't  want  no  light — a 
light  wouldn't  be  anny  good  to  me  to-night.  Oh, 
God  !  to  think  I've  come  to  this,"  as  he  stumbled  on. 


r^^;/>/>illLi*' 


The    BIJIER    FRUIT    vf    I'lCTORY      -.2-] 

He  paused  midway  up  the  stairs.  ••  lUinds  all 
down,  K'""' "*  '  ^^^  Hskcd  brusquely. 

"  Ves,  father,  they're  all  down." 

"  Ve  ain't  ateard  ^>'  the  dark,  be  ye,  girl?  " 

"  No,  father— why  ?  " 

"  Then  put  out  that  there  lamp,  will  yc — mcbbe 
they'll  unnerstand." 

"  Yes,  father — and  I'll  tell  them  to  go  away  if  you 
like." 

"  No,"  he  almost  thundered  from  the  stairs  ;  "  nary 
a  word,  I  tell  ye — not  to  the  likes  o'  them.  Is  the 
door  locked,  Nora?  " 

"  No,  father." 

"  Then  lock  it,  girl — an'  don't  disturb  me  till  the 
mornin'." 

On  Dinny  went,  walking  heavily,  till  he  reached 
his  room.  Gradually  the  noise  below  subsided,  ti.^ 
disappointed  crowd  reluctantly  disappearing  and 
going  mystified  upon  its  way.  But  Dinny  sat  alone 
on  his  bed  in  the  darkened  room ;  groping  beneath 
the  mattress  and  fumbling  under  the  bed,  he  pro- 
duced the  pitiful  toys,  which,  scarcely  discernible  in 
the  darkness,  yet  told  their  bitter  story,  spelling  it 
out  as  in  letters  of  living  fiame.  lie  sat  staring  at 
them,  sometimes  in  stony  silence,  sometimes  rocking 
to  and  fro.  Few  words  escaped  him,  and  those  that 
came  were  in  broken  mutterings. 


i 


f  il 


t 

il 


i 


)28 


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"  Oh,  Guu  he  murmured,  bending  now  over  the 
httle  watch  and  chain,  and  the  garish  horn,  boUi  of 
which  were  rebtmjj  .a  his  hands;  "oh,  God !— an' 
this  is  the  glory  an'  honour  av  Dinny  Riley's  lite!  If 
my  father  knowed  this,  sure  he'd  turn  over  wid 
Sorrow  in  his  ^ravc.  Oh,  Lord  .'—an'  them  blood- 
suckers considers  Dinny  Riley  tiieir  leader  an'  their 
king— an'  they  wanted  to  crown  lum  wid  glory  an" 
honour.  An'  they  didn't  do  anny  av  it  in  derision 
—they  really  thoupht  it  av  mc,  sure  they  thought  it 
av  me,"  and  he  bent  low  again  in  tlie  bitterness  of 
his  shame. 


When  the  night  at  last  was  hushed  in  silence 
Dinny  lighted  a  tallow  candle  and  began  his  task. 
It  was  as  formidable  as  momentous.  He  was  about 
lo  renounce  forever  the  business  of  his  lifetime;  the 

industry  that  had  been  his  livelihood  in  the  past and 

in  which,  till  twenty-four  hours  before,  had  reposed 
all  his  hope  for  the  future. 

Bi't  it  was  over  now — to  be  laid  aside  forever. 
And  Dinny's  last  ambition,  amid  the  ruin  of  his 
broken  hopes,  was  to  make  fitting  announcement  of 
the  same.  The  early  morning  had  dawned  upon 
him  before  the  intimation  was  penned  to  his  satisfac- 
tion. It  was  written  in  a  large  scrawliiiy  iiand,  and 
becomingly  underlined : 


,  {  #11'  l'>|^'":^^  M 


*  '^: 


The    BITTER    hKUIT    of  yiClORY 


CLOSED  in  regards 
to  its  /'iissi/it  iiiiiuii;t  luiitt 
till  tlu 
JUin;MI\'T  DAY 

I).  RiLy 
1 '/  opi  yi.  tor. 


J 


'llic  ^;iay  dauM  u.is  slowly  breaking;  when  Diniiy 
crept  stealthily  uutsidc  the  weather-beaten  tavern,  a 
hammer  in  one  h.mti,  tlie  prochimation  in  tlie  otlier, 
and  a  copious  supply  of  tack:^  in  liis  mouth  He 
liad  alread}-  fastened  two  corners  of  the  manifesto, 
wlien  suddenly  he  stopped,  looked  lon^  at  the 
wooden  tablet  above  the  door,  then  sat  down  and 
pondered. 

The  notice  .is  the  same  as  was  usually  posted 
above  country  taverns  ;  it  read  as  fuUows  : 


LICENSED 

TO  SELL 

WINES  BEERS  M2 
SPIRITUOUS  LIQUORS 


Dinny  gazed  long,  his  brows  knitted  in  thought. 
After  a  period  of  severe  pondering,  a  grim  and  half 


ill 


r.  tJ 


330 


THE   HANDICAP 


ii  ii' 

II:    '" 


comical  light  came  upon  his  face.  He  tore  his  paper 
placard  from  the  wall,  threw  the  hammer  on  the 
ground,  spat  out  the  surviving  tacks,  and  went  into 
the  house. 

A  minute  or  two  later  he  reappeared,  bearing  in 
his  hand  a  pot  of  dark  paint,  the  handle  of  the  brush 
protruding. 

Then  he  fell  to  work.  Five  minutes  later  he  de- 
scended  from  the  box  on  which  he  had  stood  to  do 
his  work.     And  now  the  sign  read  thus : 


TO/^LL"^ 

jWINES  BEERS  i^ 
\  SPIRITUOUS  LIQUORS  || 

And  thus,  when  the  awaking  tides  of  life  coursed 
again  along  the  street,  did  the  startled  citizens  of 
Glen  Ridge  read  Dinny's  message  of  fond  farewell. 


tAlfur'  ■,Vm^iCfi7:i    S- .M/SURr'^-^V^  ■ 


f - 


<■ 


XXIV 
/IN  HEIR    BY   HONOUR    BOUND 

NORA  was   at   the  door,  gazing  down  tlie 
street.      The   sun   was   setting,   and   she 
knew  it  was  time  for  weary  labourers  to 
turn  their  steps  towards  home.    Already  the  throng 
of  toilers,  their  eager  faces  stained  with  the  work  of 
the  day,  were  passing  by  her  as  they  hurried  on, 
visions   of  wife   and   child   quickening  their   pace. 
Nearly  all  had  passed  before  she  descried,  far  in  the 
rear,  the  figure  of  her  father,  her  eyes  brightening  as 
she  recognized  the  dear  familiar  face.     It  had  never 
been  more  dear ;  nor  had  he  ever  been  more  her 
hero  than  when  he  had  sought  and  found  employ- 
ment among  the  lowly  toilers  in  the  foundry.     Yet  as 
he  came  nearer  the  glow  vanished  from  the  maiden's 
eyes,  a  look  of  anxious  care  displacing  it.     For  she 
could  not  fail  to  recognize  the  change  that  was  com- 
ing— not  slowly  now,  but  swiftly — over  the  one  she 
held  so  dear.     Whether  it  was  due  to  the  new  and 
confining  work  that  had  come  so  suddenly,  or  to  the 
wrench  from  all  his  old  relations  that  his  unfaltering 


ill" 


!  f 


<   if 


332 


THE  HANDICAP 


purpose  had  demanded,  or  to  the  pressure  and 
burden  of  sudden  poverty,  or  to  the  weight  of  ad- 
vancing years  and  the  inevitable  infirmities  that  they 
bring,  she  could  not  have  said. 

But  in  any  case  the  fact  remained  that  Dinny  was 
almost  an  old  man  now.  Not  only  old,  but  broken, 
Nora  thought  bitterly  to  herself  as  she  watched  the 
still  stalwart  form,  yet  sadly  tired  and  spent  from  the 
toil  of  the  day,  pressing  slowly  on  towards  the  little 
house  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town  that  now  served 
them  as  a  home. 

"  Tired  out,  father?  "  she  asked  as  she  drew  him 
within  the  door,  kissing  him  in  welcome,  and  taking 
his  dinner  pail  from  his  hand. 

"  It's  that  there  infernal  bell,"  he  answered,  throw- 
ing himself  into  a  chair. 

"That  bell.*'  echoed  the  girl;  "what  bell, 
father?" 

"  Tliafs  the  part  that's  killin'  me."  he  explained ; 
"  it's  this  havin'  to  go  to  work  when  some  lobster 
rings  a  bell—or  blows  a  whustle— an'  dingin'  at  it 
till  it  rings  again  ;  that's  what  I  hate  about  this 
new  job  o'  mine,"  he  elaborated,  a  wry  face 
turned  towards  Nora;  "think  I'll  go  to  bed,  girl," 
he  added,  "soon  '3  I  get  a  bite  to  ate— supper 
ready  ?  " 

It  was  ready,  smoking  hot ;  and  soon  the  two  were 


y4n    HEIR    By    HONOUR    BOUND       333 

in  the  middle  of  it.  But  a  sudden  interruption  came 
in  the  form  of  a  knock  at  the  half-open  door.  An- 
swering the  summons,  Dinny  was  undi'ly  prolonged 
without.  After  the  lapse  of  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  or  so  he  returned  to  where  Nora  still  sat  beside 
the  half-finished  meal.  His  agitation  was  evident  at 
a  glance. 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  ye  all  about  it,"  he  began 
excitedly  after  a  brief  silence,  unbroken  by  inquiry 
on  Nora's  part.  "  It's  a  message  from  Hastie's  Mills 
— from  that  there  McParty  man." 

"McParty!"  echoed  Nora,  paling;  "don't  you 
mean  McLarty,  father  ?"  her  own  agitation  almost 
as  marked  as  his. 

"  Yes,  yes,  it's  the  same  man,"  Dinny  retorted 
briefly ;  "  an'  he  sent  a  message  to  me — he  wants  me 
to  come  to  him.  You  know  all  about — about  who 
he  is,  Nora.  An'  he's  sick — very  sick — dyin' 
mebbe.  An'  he  wants  me — an'  I  guess  I  ought  to 
go.  I  never  seen  the  day  when  1  wouldn't  do  a  turn 
for  a  man  that's  down— I  don't  care  who  he  is  or 
what  he  done.  So  I  think  I'll  go  to-morrow — it'll 
take  all  day,  I'm  afeared,"  sighing  lightly  as  he 
spoke. 

Nora's  words  of  reply  were  few.  She  knew  her 
father's  resolve  was  already  taken  ;  and,  besides,  the 
iTiention  of  the  McLarty  name  was  usually  enough 


■  'll 


I      ';. 


[&MJiKi  JkrassB 


3M 


THE   HANDICAP 


'i  ' 


;!  5 


k  , 


to  seal   her  lips  to  silence,  to  touch  her  cheek  to 
whiteness. 


"  I  hate  to  do  widout  the  day's  wage,"  Dinny  was 
affirming  the  next  morning,  reechoing  the  plaint  of 
the  previous  evening,  and  getting  the  words  out  as 
best  he  could  while  Nora  struggled  with  a  very 
unruly  tie;  "  aisy  there,  my  darlint— sure  ye're 
chokin'  aff  my  windpipe ;  there,  that's  better.     Yes, 

I  hate  like  all  consarned  to  lose  the  day's  pay but 

if  McParty  wants  me— and  the  cratur'  seems  terrible 
set  on  seein'  me— I  guess  I'll  have  to  go.  What  the 
divil  d'ye  suppose  the  old  dodger  wants  me  for, 
Nora?  D'ye  suppose  it'll  be  spiritual  consolation 
he'll  be  axin'  av  me  ?  Funny  now,  ain't  it — for  an 
old  curmudgeon  like  that  to  send  for  Uinny  Riley 
when  he's  goin'  to  kick  the  bucket  ?  " 

"  Don't  worry  about  that,  father— but  I  confess  I'd 
like  to  know.  Perhaps  he  wants  to  tell  you  what  a 
hero  you  are — he  ought  to."  Dinny  laughed,  but 
made  no  reply. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  know  the  way,  father  ?  "  Nora 
asked  after  a  little  silence. 

"  Could  find  it  in  the  dark— that's  bully  now," 
tracing  the  conquered  tie  with  his  fingers  ;  "  sure  ye 
mind  the  time  I  drove  it  afore,  when  I  went  to  see  this 


An    HEIR    By    HONOUR    BOUND       33s 


same  McParty  man — the  time  I  saved  poor  old 
Aiiiblie  from  the  talons  av  the  cratur'.  Niver  done 
annything  that  gave  ine  more  satisfaction  Uke,  I  don't 
think,"  Dinny  ruminated,  now  engaged  in  brushing 
violently  at  a  rather  rusty  coat. 

"  You're  getting  it  pretty  hard  now,  as  a  con- 
sequence of  that,  father  ?  "  Nora  made  bold  to  remark. 

"  Och,  I'm  all  right,"  was  the  cheery  reply ;  •'  sure 
hard  work's  good  for  a  man — an'  it's  clean  money 
I'm  makin'  now,  though  I  didn't  think  I'd  iver  see 
the  day  when  I'd  own  up  to  it,"  he  added  seriously, 
"  The  only  thing  that  worrits  me,  my  darlint,  is  in 
regards  to  yer  own  self,"  tenderly  stroking  his 
daughter's  cheek  as  he  spoke.  "  Ye  can't  always 
have  yer  old  dad  wid  ye,  girl ;  an'  sometimes  it  kind 
o'  hurts  me,  wonnerin'  what  ye'U  do  after — after  I'm 
not  near  hand  ye,  like,"  the  gentle  eyes  moistening 
as  they  turned  solicitously  on  the  girl  beside  liim. 

Nora  silenced  him  with  a  kiss.  And,  with  many 
an  injunction  as  to  the  care  he  must  take  of  himself 
while  away,  she  dismissed  him  on  his  journey  to 
Hastie's  Mills. 

Many  tender  memories  surged  about  Dinny  that 
day  as  he  arrived  once  more  at  the  unforgotten 
tavern  of  the  little  hamlet;  the  saintly  face  of  Arthur 
Ainslie  rose  again  and  again  before  him — and  he 
stood  alone,  wirh  uncovered  head,  above  the  couch 


■'  M 


;   ( 


'I 


.1-1; 


jj6 


THE   HANDICAP 


1 1 


n  - 


where  the  dying  elder  had  asked  for  the  parting  vow. 
But  he  had  little  time  to  spend  in  reverie.  A  glance 
at  the  darkening  sky  warned  him  of  an  approaching 
storm — and,  eager  to  reach  the  scene  of  action  be- 
fore it  should  break,  he  bent  his  steps  towards  the 
house  to  which  the  prostrate  McLarty  had  so  mys- 
teriously bidden  him. 

He  was  just  in  time ;  for  no  sooner  had  the  woman 
attendant — the  same  who  had  received  Margaret 
Menzies — admitted  him  within  the  spacious  door 
than  a  few  swift  flashes  of  lightning,  followed  by  the 
accompanying  roar,  advised  him  that  the  outbreak 
was  at  hand.  Weird  enough  it  all  was  as  he  sat  in 
the  shadowy  parlour,  its  stern  outline  and  antique 
furnishings  standing  out  every  now  and  then  in  the 
blinding  lane  of  light  flashed  from  the  angry  skies. 
The  woman,  with  noiseless  tread,  appeared  presently, 
and  with  a  taciturn  "  Mr.  McLarty  wants  you  to 
come  up  at  once,"  led  the  way  up  the  darksome 
stairs. 

The  man  had  changed  since  Dinny  saw  him  last ; 
those  ghostly  touches  which  attest  that  the  soul  is 
girded  for  its  long  journey  were  evident  at  a  glance. 
Something  in  Mr.  McLarty 's  stern  salutation,  mo- 
tioning to  a  chair  beside  the  bed,  made  it  abundantly 
clear  that  he  wished  to  proceed  without  delay  to  the 
business  of  the  hour. 


/In    HEIR    By    HONOUR    BOUND      337 

"Shut  that  door  tight,"  he  said  without  further 

parley  as    soon  as  the  woman   had  retired "  and 

turn  the  key  in  the  lock." 

Dinny  obeyed ;  then  sat  down  again. 

The  man  fixed  his  lustrous  eyes  on  him.  Long  lie 
stared,  unspeaking.  Dinny,  of  as  honest  soul  as  ever 
shone  from  honest  eyes,  met  the  gaze  in  silent  calm. 
Surely  it  did  not  need  the  keenness  so  often  loaned 
to  those  about  to  bid  farewell  to  Time,  to  discover 
the  faithfulness  and  truth  that  could  be  read  in  every 
hne  of  the  mobile  Irish  face.  Once  McLarty  turned 
away— then,  fixing  his  gaze  again  on  the  man  beside 
the  bed,  he  peered  into  the  answering  eyes. 

"  Light  that  lamp,"  were  his  next  words ;  "  it'll 
soon  be  dark." 

Dinny  did  as  he  was  directed,  again  resuming  his 
seat. 

"  You  know  who  I  am?"  the  man  began  abruptly. 

Dinny  nodded. 

"And  you  know  Margaret  Menzies?"  Again 
Dinny  gave  consent. 

"And  her  boy?  You  know,  I  suppose— you 
know  who  he  is— you  know  he's  mine."  The  words 
made  Dinny  start  in  his  chair.  All  they  had  told, 
he  already  knew.  But  there  was  something  so 
Eternal  in  them  ;  partly  wail,  partly  p.xan  ;  some  va- 
grant notes  that  spoke  of  love  and  of  the  long  a^o— 


It, 

Ml 

i 

III 


(  I 


J  ■ 


6     tj 

■    »i 


»l 


J    ? 


^ORff 


'is  ^cnn:~ ;«'  ^?t'  z-~ 


i^i* 


il  f 

i   r 

ill 


,1  f 

|i  ill 

flj. 


'  U' 


338 


THE   HANDICAP 


of  shame,  and  fear — yet  of  possession,  almost  of 
savage  pride,  the  far-off  strain  of  the  fatherly  refus- 
ing to  be  silenced  by  all  that  sought  to  hush  and 
smother  it. 

"  I  knew  ye  was  his  father,"  Dinny  said,  steadying 
hii  voice  with  difficulty. 

"  I  am  his  fatn-^r,"  the  man  answered  rigidly. 
"  And  you  know  I'm  dying?"  he  added,  his  hps  set- 
tUng  sternly. 

"  Isn't  there  anny  hope  ?  "  poor  Dinny  asked  sym- 
pathetically. 

«'  This  is  no  time  for  that  kind  of  talk,"  the  man 
returned  grimly ;  "  a  day  or  two  at  longest  and  you'll 
get  your  answer.  And  I  suppose  you  know  I'm 
rich  ?  " 

Dinny  nodded,  trying  hard  to  make  the  nod  a 
cheerful  one. 

"  And  you  know  I'm — I'm  going  to  leave  it  all  be- 
hind me?" 

•'  It's  a  common  kind  av  a  custom,"  said  Dinny 
timidly,  venturing,  but  shyly,  on  a  reply  not  alto- 
gether dull. 

"  Well,"  and  the  man  lifted  his  head  feebly  as  he 
spoke,  "  that's  the  business  that  made  me  send  for 
you.  Who  do  you  think  I  ought  to  leave  my  money 
to  ?— tell  me  frankly.     This  is  a  time  for  plain  speak- 


ing. 


I 


/In    HEIR    By    HONOUR    BOUXD       339 

Dinny  never  hesitated.  "  Them  two,"  he  an- 
swered swiftly,  pointinjj  over  his  shoulder  in  the  di- 
rection he  imagined  was  towards  Glen  Ridge. 

•'  They  wouldn't  take  it,"  came  the  answer  sharp 
and  clear. 

Dinny  sat  forward  a  little  in  his  chair. 

"  They  wouldn't  take  it — at  least  s/ie  wouldn't. 
That's  settled — I  know  her — she'd  see  me  in  hell 
first.  And  I  don't  blame  her,"  as  he  lay  back  again, 
his  eyes  fairly  burning  as  they  clung  to  Dinny's 
face. 

"  That's  just  the  kind  av  a  woman  she  is,  sir," 
Dinny  broke  forth  after  a  long  and  emotional  silence. 
"  There  isn't  annybody  knows  her  better  than  me — I 
seen  her  first  the  day  she  came  to  Glen  Ridge, 
an  — ^— 

McLarty  stopped  him  with  a  violent  gesture. 
"  And  yet,  there's  nobody  in  God's  world  has  a  right 
to  what  I've  got — except  them,  except  that  boy 
especially — except  my  son,"  the  two  last  words 
coming  with  the  same  strange  swell  as  before. 
"Is  there?" 

"  It's  right  ye  are,"  Dinny  almost  whispered.  He 
was  leaning  forward  now. 

"  Riley,  I  know  all  about  you ! "  was  the  next 
sentence,  every  word  uttered  slowly  by  itself. 

Dinny  gazed,  marvelling. 


I 


k 


»■! 


I 


Iff 


fv 


>\ 


340 


THE   HANDICAP 


"  I  know  what  you  did — for  old  Ainslic.  I  guess 
1  uiii;lit  to  know.  And  what  you've  done  fur  lots 
of  people.  And  I  want  to  tell  you  this,  Kiley — I 
trust  you.  I  knew  you  were  a  man  the  first  time  I 
saw  you.  I  trust  you,  sir  ?  "  the  last  coming  as  an 
interrogative. 

Dinny  nodded,  very  faintly. 

"  So  I'm  going  to  leave  all  I  have — to  you.  To  you, 
sir.  Every  dollar.  There's  a  lawyer  in  this  house 
this  very  minute — my  own  lawyer — he's  down-stairs 
in  the  dining-room.  And  what  I  have  is  either  in 
cash  or  in  bonds — in  something  easily  got  hold  of, 
anyway.  And  I'll  make  it  sure  as  death — and  that 
looks  sure  enough,  God  knows.  My  will  is  all  fixed 
now — only  needs  that  I  sign  it — and  that  '11  be  done 
before  you're  back  to  your  hotel.  No,  not  a  word — 
wait  till  I'm  through,"  he  almost  gasped  as  Dinny 
endeavoured  to  break  in;  "everything  will  pass  into 
your  hands— all  but  one  or  two  trifling  gifts  to  the 
servants.     And  there's  just  one  condition,  Riley  !  " 

lie  paused,  waiting.  IJut  no  word  came.  "  Why 
don't  you  ask  me  what  that  condition  is  ? "  he  de- 
manded warmly,  the  delay  evidently  irritating  him. 
"  Don't  you  want  to  know  ?  " 

There  was  a  marvellous  expression  on  Dinny's 
face.  Not  joy,  not  elation — though  it  was  full  of 
hght ;  neither  was  it  one  of  cunning,  or  sly  shrewd- 


•», 


An    HEIR    By    HO  NO  UK    BOUND       341 

ness — though  it  spoke  what  t!i"  man  before  him 
lunged  to  hear. 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  me  what  that  condition  is?" 
he  repeated,  the  words  sharp  and  stern. 

"  'Cause  I  know,  sir,"  Dinny  answered  low,  Icai;- 
ing  far  over  towards  the  bed. 

"What  is  it,  Ri'ey?"  The  prostrate  man  tried 
again  to  raise  himself  on  his  pillow. 

"  It's  this — that  ye  want  me  to  use  it  ivisc  an  fair, 
like — ain't  that  it,  Mr.  McParty?  Ye  want  me  to 
make  a  good  use  av  it,  don't  ye,  sir  ? — or,  if  I  had  to 
pass  on — like  yerself,  sir — to  he  uncouimon  careful 
ivho  I  left  it  to.  To  kind  av  carry  out  yer  wishes, 
like,  sir.  Ain't  that  there  the  condition,  Mr.  Mc- 
Party ?  "  the  fixed  eyes  agleam  with  the  emotion  of 
his  soul  as  he  leaned  over  and  whispered  to  the 
dying  man. 

With  a  great  reaction  the  bl'  J  fled  from  the  face 
upon  th:  pillow.  Something  akin  to  peace  came 
over  the  features  of  the  now  relaxed  and  almost 
breathless  man.  For  the  first  time — and  the  last — 
Dinny  saw  a  smile  pass  over  the  hardened  features. 
Faintly,  as  if  the  effort  had  been  too  much  for  liim, 
he  moved  his  hand  towards  Dinny ;  the  Irishman 
took  it  and  held  it  close.  The  exhausted  man  turned 
his  eyes  towards  a  flask  on  the  tahle  ;  Dinny  poured 
out  a  draught  and  gave  it  to  him. 


34a 


7HE   HANDICAP 


His  strength,  so  much  as  was  left,  soon  returned 
to  him.  But  still  he  lay,  Dintiy'b  hand  in  his,  a 
look  of  triumph,  almost  of  tranquillity,  upon  his  face. 

"  V'ou  can  go  now,"  he  said  shortly ;  "  tell  Mrs. 
Ilaskin  to  send  the  lawyer  up.  God  !  but  it's  a  wild 
night — I  wonder  if  the  dead  !:now  when  it  rains  like 
that." 

Dinny  rose,  his  lips  sealed  tight.  A  slight  parting 
pressure  of  the  hand,  and  he  had  turned  towards  the 
door.  Glancing  back,  he  saw  the  man  motion  him 
to  return. 

"  I  trust  you,"  the  dying  lips  faltered  as  the  burn- 
ing eyes  looked  up  at  him  again. 

Dinny  nodded,  then  turned  and  went  away. 

He  had  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  was  out 
in  the  gloomy  hall,  when,  obeying  a  sudden  ipipulse, 
he  turned  and  reentered  the  room.  Gliding  gently 
over  till  he  was  beside  the  bed  again,  he  bended  low 
and  whispered: 

"  I  think  he'll  be  the  next  Member  nv  Parliinint." 

The  dying  eyes  looked  curiously.  ••  \  lio  ?  "  came 
faintly. 

"  Yer  son,"  said  Dinny,  his  face  suffused  with 
tenderness. 

A  look  of  dumb  joy  leaped  to  the  pallid  features. 
Then  they  turned  cold  and  gray  again,  like  the 
clouds  when  the  sun  withdraws  his  light. 


•2W* 


!  i 


/in    HEIR    By    HONOUR    BOUSD       '4' 

P'  ly  turned  again  to  go.  Yet  he  seenir.l  to  find 
t  I.^i  to  depart.  Hesitating,  he  liiit;ercd  a  mo- 
n  till,      riding  lower  above  the  bed. 

■  .\l     McParty,"  he  said  trcmbUngly. 

"  cam,"  absently  from  the  man  bcrcath  hini. 

I ..(,  t    !  '■  '       inybody  God  d(  .sn't  love — 'spc- 

.  ai.;  they're  dyin',  Mr.  Mcl'arty,"  and  the 

i  trang       ■      broken  tones  had  a  power  such  as  mere 

./ricalUood  ! «  ver  knew. 

The  man  looked  wistfully,  and  moved  his  hand. 
Dinny  took  it,  pressing  it  gently  ;  then  he  tenderly 
loosened  his  clasp  and  moved  silently  towards  the 
door.  Another  long,  earnest  look— was  that  love 
that  shone  in  his  eyes  ?— and  he  was  gone. 

Off  into  the  night  he  drove,  facing  the  cruel  storm. 
Long  before  he  had  reached  Glen  Ridge  Uavid 
McLarty  had  set  forth  on  that  longer  journey,  the 
pilgrimage  of  the  unreturnmg  feet. 


"■)'■ 


■m 


■f;  §'■;  , 


XXV 
THE   RIGHT  HON.,    THE   PREMIER 

THE  day  of  the  great  political  Convention 
had   come  at   last.     The  occasion   of  the 
gathering  was  to  nominate  a  candidate  to 
represent  the  Conservative  party  at  the  approaching 
general  election.    In  fact,  the  business  of  the  hour  was 
practically  to    elect  the  Member  for  the  Dominion 
House  of  Commons.    For  the  constituency  had  been 
represented    by  a  Conservative  as  far  back  as  the 
oldest  settler  could  remember ;  and  as  a  matter  of 
fact  the  opposing  party,  at  a  similar  Convention  held 
a  week  before,  had  resolved  not  to  place  a  candidate 
in  the  field,  so  certain  was  the  issue  and  so  obvious 
the  result  of  a  contest  at  the  polls.     Thus  it  came 
about,  now  that  the  old  Member  who  had  so  long 
served  them  was  withdrawing  beneath  the  weight  of 
years,  that  whoever  should  be  fortunate  enough  to 
secure  the  nomination  would  by  that  very  achieve- 
ment   stand    elected    as   the   representative   in   the 
House  of  Commons  for  South  Waterfield,  for  such 
was  the  title  of  the  constituency. 
This  of  itself  was  quite  enough  to  throw  Glen 

344 


The   RIGHT   HON.,    The   PREMIER      34s 


Ridge  and  all  the  surrounding  section  into  a  fever  of 
excitement  as  the  Convention  Day  drew  near.  IJut, 
more  exciting  still,  it  was  settled  beyond  dispute  that 
the  choice  would  be  confined  to  two  men,  each  of 
whom  had  a  strong  and  determined  following. 
These  two,  it  need  hardly  be  added,  were  Arthur 
Dustan  and  Irwin  Menzies.  And  both  had  good 
ground  for  hope. 

To  add  to  the  momentous  character  of  the  Con- 
vention, it  was  to  be  graced  by  the  presence  of  the 
most  distinguished  Canadian  of  his  time.  The  Prime 
Minister  of  the  Dominion  had  consented  to  be 
present  and  address  the  gathered  electors.  It  was 
yea'-s  and  years  since  the  Premier  liad  been  in  Glen 
Ridge,  but  none  who  had  seen  or  heard  him  then 
had  forgotten  his  magnetic  charm.  This,  added  to 
his  great  fame,  kindled  expectation  to  the  highest 
pitch. 

He  had  come  ;  Sir  John  A.  had  arrived — and 
the  morning  had  been  a  gala  one  for  all  and  sundry. 
The  old  Chieftain  had  met  the  party  leaders  in 
the  freeness  of  familiar  intercourse ;  and  new  life,  as 
everywhere  he  moved,  leaped  within  the  breasts  he 
had  inspired.  He  haO  reached  the  town  in  the  early 
morning,  and  had  repaired  along  with  a  few  of  the 
faithful  for  breakfast  at  The  Buck  Tavern,  over  which 
Dinny  held  sway  no  more. 


•  I 


f 

ji 

• 

1 

11' 

■   B 

1; 

1 

ii 

a 
I 

; 

\  ? 

i'.i 


4      . 


If  ; 
I 


14 


H'5 


346 


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"  Wull  ye  hae  sugar  wi'  yir  porridge  ? "  one  of  the 
stalwarts  had  asked  him  as  the  meal  began,  .1  vener- 
able Scot  who  had  supported  the  party  faitlifully  for 
forty  years  or  more. 

"  Sugar  !  "  returned  the  Premier ;  "  sugar  with  oat- 
meal poi ridge!  Do  you  want  to  insult  me,  man? 
Don't  you  know  I  was  dorn  there? — in  Glasgow 
itseit: — and  yet  you  ask  me  if  I  take  sugar  with  my 
porridge-!  You  must  think  I'm  a  degenerate  Scot — 
as  well  ask  me  if  I  sing  the  Second  Paraphase  to 
Annie  Laurie.  Please  pass  the  cream — and  I'll  take 
mine  in  a  cup,  the  way  my  ancestors  did  for  a  thou- 
sand years." 

This  sterling  orthodoxy  on  the  part  of  the  great 
man  was  duly  communicated  to  several  hangers-on 
around  the  tavern  door ;  and,  before  the  time  for  the 
great  gathering  of  the  afternoon,  almost  ever}' 
Scotchman  in  the  riding  knew  of  it.  And  Sir  John's 
popularity  rose  upon  it  as  on  a  gathering  tide. 

"  Look  here,"  the  Chieftain  whispered  a  moment 
later  to  the  man  at  his  right,  the  President  of  the 
Association  ;  "  I  want  you  to  point  out  everybody 
here  you  think  I  met  when  I  was  last  in  the  riding ; 
you  know  I  never  forget  a  name,  or  a  face — if  a  little 
inquiry  will  prevent  it,"  winking  solemnly  at  his 
host,  ••  and  I  don't  propose  to  forget  any  of  these," 
glancing  about  the  room  as  he  spoke. 


i 


•The    RIGHT   HON.,    The   PREMIER      347 

It  was  a  moment  or  two  before  the  Scotchman 
reaUzed  just  what  was   expected  of  him.     Hut  when 
duly  informed  he  proceeded  with  gu.-.to  to  hii  task, 
and  in  a  minute  or  two  had  armed  Sir  John  with  tl:e 
information  he  desired.     Wherefore,  as  soon  as  the 
meal  was  over,  Sir  John  made  a  circle  of  the  room, 
greeting  this  man  and  that  by  name,  making  sundry 
references  to  their  occupations,  inquiring  of  one  as  to 
the  condition  of  the  crops,  of  another  as  to  the  state 
of  the  grocery  business,  solicitous  that  still  another 
was  by  this  time  quite  free  from  the  rheumatism  that 
had  troubled  him  years  ago,  assuring  most  of  them 
that  they  had  changed  but  little  since  last  he  saw 
them,  and  throwing  the  whole  company  into  such  a 
state   of    wondering   delight   as   cannot   readily   be 
imagined. 

"  And  do  you  really  think  you're  going  to  carry 
the  country  at  the  approaching  election  ?  "  one  of  the 
delegates  asked  him,  all  of  a  tremble  with  agitated 
pride  as  he  looked  into  the  great  man's  face.  It  was 
a  face  worthy  of  study,  with  its  high  and  massive 
br.n.v,  the  scanty  hair  faUing  back  from  the  shapely 
head  ;  with  the  semi-serious,  semi-merry  eyes,  deep 
and  powerful ;  with  the  square  chin  and  firm  set  jaw ; 
with  the  mobile  lips,  responsive  lo  the  last  Uv.gree  ; 
wilh  the  bold  and  commanding  nose,  most  signit'cant 
f;a*iie   of  the  whole  striking  countenance,  i::  •  hich 


i 


'    I 


if 


'f  •* 


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\.     e^atio^  and  liis:^;  t  and  firmness  of  purpose  were 
bo  abundantly  <    ,•     ut. 

"  Carry  the  y  untiy?"  replied  Sir  John,  scattering 
a  cunfidcnti.".!  u.le  among  the  bystanders;  "we'll 
sweep  it  Hke  i-  !<iirricane  does  a  ban  .  in  No- 
vember. C?rjy  it! — I  should  think  There's 
nothing  so  usiccrtain,  I  know,  as  an  ele  )n,  unless 
it's  a  horse- race;  but  then  a  horse-race  isn't  uncertain 
when  it's  bt'ween  a  horse  and  a  nag — and  a  lame 
nag  at  that, "  chuckling  as  he  looked  around  the  com- 
pany. 

"  How  large  a  majority  do  you  look  for,  Sir 
John?"  another  asked;  not  that  he  cared  a  fig 
whether  it  were  large  or  small  or  altogether  non- 
existent—but he  had  his  eye  upon  the  fame  that 
would  be  his  when  he  went  back  to  the  yeomen  of 
his  township,  upon  the  distinction  that  would  be  a 
legacy  to  his  children,  in  virtue  of  his  having  looked 
upon  .ind  spoken  to  the  Father  of  Confederation. 

Sir  Jolin  looked  at  him  quizzingly  a  moment. 
"  I'm  looking  for  all  we  can  get,"  he  replied  after  a 
moir.eni'3  pause  ;  "  can't  have  it  too  big,  you  know. 
Majorities  are  like  what  the  squaw  said  about  the 
whiskey, "  he  went  on,  and  he  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
look  over  his  left  shoulder  as  he  spoke ;  "  when 
you'  /e  got  a  little  too  much,  then  that's  just  enough," 
joining,  ulmost  leading,  in  the  laugh  that  followed. 


The    RIGHT   HON.,    The   PREMIER.       349 

A  few  minutes  later,  after  a  whispered  consultation 
with  a  few  of  the  faithful,  the  President  took  Sir  John 
aside.  •'  There's  a  httle  favour  we  thought  of  asking 
of  you,  Sir  John — if  we're  not  making  too  bold. 
We've  been  wondering  if  you  could  spare  a  few 
minutes  to  call  upon  one  of  the  most  loyal  sup- 
porters you  have  in  the  country.  It's  the  great  dis- 
appointment of  his  life,  I  know,  that  he's  not  able  to 
be  out  to-day — he  met  you  when  you  were  here  be- 
fore ' 

"  The  name  ?  "  asked  the  old  Chieftain,  inclining 
his  ear. 

"  It's  Dinny  Riley — he  used  to  be  proprietor  of  this 
very  establishment.  But  he  pitched  the  business  up 
— in  a  rather  peculiar  way.  And  now  he's  living  in  a 
little  house  about  half  a  mile  from  here ;  we  could 
drive  over  in  a  few  minutes." 

"What's  the  r matter  with  him?"  the  Premier 
asked,  the  keen  eyes  thoughtful  and  earnest. 

"  Oh,  he's  pretty  sick.  Getting  to  be  an  old  man, 
you  know;  been  failing  fast  lately.  And  then,  some 
time  ago  it  seems  he  hod  a  long  drive  in  a  fearful 
storm — and  that  proved  serious.  The  doctor's  fight- 
ing pneumonia — and  we're  rather  afraid  poor  Dinny 
'11  never  be  out  again.  It  would  gladden  his 
whole " 

"  I  understand,"  Sir  John  interrupted  quickly  ;  "  of 


;  l\ 


i  W 


^ 


350 


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:;i 


course  I'll  go.  Certainly—we'll  go  riglit  now  ;  that 
kind  of  politics  suits  me  exactly.  I  oRcn  think  I 
should  hc/c  been  a  minister— different  from  the 
Cabinet  kind,  I  mean;  a  higher  kind  too,  by  Juvc," 
the  earnest  look  mingling  strangely  with  the  banter- 
ing Hiiiie  that  still  played  upon  his  lips—-  ii  I  had 
gone  into  the  church,  I'd  have  been  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  possibly  a  Pope— if  they'd  have  allowed 
me  to  <  lead  about  a  sister,'  as  the  Apostle  says, "  giv- 
ing the  President  a  familiar  nudge. 

"  And  one  of  the  two  that  are  after  the  nomination 
to-day— I  refer  to  Mr.  Dustan— is  engaged  to  Dinny 
Riley's  daughter,"  the  President  went  on,  engrossed 
in  his  subject;  «' and  the  other  one— I  refer  to 
Menzies— he  wanted  to  be.    At  least,  so  they  say." 

This  was  enough  for  the  great  man,  intensely 
human  as  he  was.  And  the  entire  conversation,  as  he 
was  being  quickly  driven  to  Dinny 's  house,  centred  it- 
self about  this  so  interesting  love  affair,  grave  matters 
of  state  laid  aside  for  the  time.  Before  the  drive  was 
finished,  Sir  John  was  familiar  with  the  whole  situation. 
"  If  these  young  fellows  would  pay  more  attention 
to  their  sweethearts,  and  less  to  politics,  they'd  be  a 
good  deal  happier,"  was  the  veteran's  dictum  as  they 
drew  up  to  Dinny 's  humble  door. 

The  interview  was  a  great  success.     Dinny  all  but 
wept   with    iu>— and   Sir  John's  assurance  that  he 


'The    RIGHT   HOW,    7 lie    FREMILK       y->\ 

would  have  known  liini  amonj;  a  thousand  left  the 
adorinj];  Irishman  ready  to  depart  in  peace.  The  con- 
versation lasted  only  a  few  minutes,  but  the  farewell 
of  the  old  Chieftain,  thou^jh  his  words  were  few,  had 
the  breath  of  the  Eternal  in  them.  He,  too,  knew 
that  on  every  hfe  the  night  must  fall. 

Withdrawing,  they  met  Nora  at  the  door,  return- 
ing from  some  errand  up  the  street.  Then  did  Sir 
John  stop  and  pay  his  most  chivalric  court  to  the 
lovely  girl,  for  there  was  no  more  appreciative  judge 
of  beauty  in  all  the  land.  Nora's  quiet  dignity  and 
modest  deference  evidently  made  a  great  impression 
on  him. 

•'  You'll  be  at  the  Convention  this  afternoon,  of 
course  ? — they  tell  me  the  wives  and  sweethearts  are 
all  coming,"  he  said,  as  he  was  about  to  bid  her 
good-bye. 

"  Yes,"  said  Nora,  blushing.  "  I  didn't  intend  to 
go — but  father  insists  I  must  attend  so  that  1  can  give 
him  a  full  report  of  all  that  goes  on."  Her  eyes 
were  on  the  ground. 

"  I  understand,  my  dear,"  the  Premier  returned 
slyly ;  •'  the  old  story— taking  the  children  to  see  the 
animals,  you  know.  Sure  it's  altogether  for  father's 
sake  you  want  to  go  ?  "  he  went  on  teasingly.  "  My 
friend  here,"  nodding  towards  the  Pr'^sident,  "  tells 
me   you   hold   one  of  the  aspirants  \n  the  hollow  of 


m 


352 


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n 


H 


your  hand.  Well,  now.  Til  tell  you  what  I  believe 
I'll  do— for  your  sake  ;  if  he  gets  the  nomination,  and 
if  he  gives  us  good  service  down  there  in  Parliament, 
I'll— I'll  get  him  knighted— and  half  of  it  will  go  to 
you.  Sir  Arthur !  that  sounds  pretty  good,  doesn't 
it  now?— Tell  me  how  it  strikes  you,  my  dear." 

Kvcn  the  Premier  of  the  Dominion  could  not  but 
feel  Je  dignity,  almost  the  rebuke,  of  the  calm  face 
uplifted  to  his  own.  It  was  furiously  aflame,  but 
something  in  the  eyes  told  of  complete  self-control. 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  Sir  John,"  she  answered, 
with  the  daintiest  courtesy,  "  if  I  don't  answer  your 
question.  I'd  like  to  give  you  all  my  confidence— 
but  I  don't  feel  I've  known  you  1-  ng  enough  to  bur- 
den you  with  it,  Sir  John,"  looking  up  in  perfect 
calm. 

The  Premier  laughed,  but  not  quite  so  spontane- 
ously  as  was  his  wont.  "  By  Jove,"  he  said,  "  you'd 
have  made  a  great  politician  yourself;  that's  as  good 
an  answer  as  I  ever  heard  on  the  floor  of  the  House. 
If  you  were  a  man  I'd  make  you  Minister  of  Militia. 
Come.  Mr.  President,  I  guess  it's  time  for  us  to  go. 
Good-bye,  my  dear— and  be  sure  to  sit  where  I  can 
see  you  this  afternoon."  as  he  went,  stiil  laughing,  on 
his  way. 

A  vast  crowd  thronged  the  hall  when  the  Conven- 
tion at  length  was  called  to  order.     The  first  and 


•The    RIGHT   HON.,    The    PREMIER     y^y 

great  feature  of  the  day  was  the  speech  from  the  em- 
inent Canadian  who  had  honoured  the  occasion  witli 
his  presence,  f lis  words  were  received  with  breaili- 
less  attention,  especially  towards  the  close,  when  his 
remarks  were  more  purely  of  a  personal  note. 

"  I'm  afraid,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  went  on  in 
that  semi-languid,  semi-fiery  style  which  thousands 
slill  remember  well,  "  that  my  speech  thus  far,  deal- 
ing largely  with  figures  as  it  has,  has  been  sadly  dry 
and  uninteresting.     Statistics   are  hard  to  make  en- 
tertaining.    There  was  a  man  once,  a  publisher— he 
wasn't  as  familiar  with  pious  things  as  he  should  have 
been  ;  I'm  afraid  he  was  a  Grit— and  a  certain  Rever- 
end author  came  to  him  and  asked  him  if  he  would 
publish  a  work  from  his  pen,  a  commentary  on  the 
book  of  Jeremiah.    And  the  publisher  said  :  '  Well,  if 
there's  lots  of  fun  in  it,  I  will— that's  what  takes  with 
the  public'     And   I   feel  a  good  deal  like  that,  my 
friends,  while  dealing  with  the  facts  and  figures  ol  the 
tariff— it's  just  about  as  hard  to  make  them  funny. 

"But  now  I  want  to  turn  from  all  this, and  indulge 
for  a  moment  a  rv.>:e  personal  note.  I  want  to  thank 
you,  as  a  constituency,  for  all  your  personal  loyalty 
to  myself- and  to  ask  for  more.  Y  iiave  stuck  to 
me  throuijh  thick  and  thin,"  the  old  lief  went  on, 
leaning  out  towards  his  hearers,  a  very  tender  ex- 
pression on  the  sensitive  face,  "  and  that's  what  1  love 


i^& 


5S4 


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III 


M 


!■    !' 


r    ! 


you  for.     I  don't  care  much  for  friends  who  stand  to 
)our  back  when  you're  right— I  want  mine  to  stick 
to  me  when  I'm  wrong.     And  my  opponents  have 
tried  hard  enough,  the  Lord  knows."  a  roguish  look 
stealing  to  tlie  expressive  eyes,  "  to  make  you  think 
I'm  all  wrong  together-^nd  to  convince  you  that  the 
country  is  going  to  the  dogs  in  my  hands.     But  that's 
because  they're  pessimists,  ladies  and  gentlemen  ;  they 
won't  see  the  brightness  and  the  prosperity  all  around 
them,  which  I  think  the  party  I  have  the  honour  to 
lead  have  done  something  to  create.     These  croakers 
remind  me  of  Marryafs  English  Sailor,  who,  return- 
ing from  the  sweet  scenes  of  the  Riviera  to  the  storm 
and  sleet  of  the  English  channel,  pulled  his  sou'wester 
down  over  his  head  and  buttoned  his  pea-jacket  about 
his  throat :  •  This   is  weather,'  quoth  he,  «  none  of 
your  blank  blue  skies  for  me.'     Well,  let  the  heathen 
rage."  the  Chieftain  went  on  as  soon  as  the  roar  of 
laughter  had  subsided.  "  let  them    rage,  as  another 
good  man  said  long  ago;  they've  abused  and  be- 
rated me,  as  you  know,  like  a  common  pickpocket 
—but  I'll  give  you  the  reason,  ladies  and  gentlemen. 
Tiiere  are  many  farmers  here  to-day— I  can  pick 
them   out  by  the  intelligence  on  their  faces— and  I 
want  to  ask  you  one  thing  ;  if  you  wanted  to  find  the 
ttst  apple  tree  in  tlie  orchard,  where  would  you  look  ? 
To  a  tree  that  nobody  has  disturbed,  at  which  no 


.  1. 1(>  «!»«&. 


■The  RIGHT  HON.,  7 he  PREMIER  y.s 
sticks  and  itones  have  been  hurled  ?  Oh,  no !  \\>u 
look,  do  you  not.  for  a  tree  that  shows  si^ns  ol  battle 
-with  the  sticks  and  stones  lying  at  it.  iuot  that 
have  been  hurled  by  envious  hands.  Well,  my 
friends,  it's  just  the  same  with  men-when  you  have 
the  tree  that  bears  good  fruit,  you'll  find  it  the 
target  for  all  the  missiles  on  which  envy  can  lay  its 
hands. 

"  And  now,  Mr.  President,  I  must  make  way  and 
let  you  proceed  with  the  business  of  the  hour.     You 
are   to   nominate  a   candidate  for  the  approaching 
election ;  and  I  rejoice  to  hear  that,  owing  to  the 
amiable  discretion  of  our  friends  the  enemy,  who- 
ever you  nominate  will  stand   unopposed,  and  be- 
comes practically  your  next  Member  of  Parliament. 
And  I  believe  it  is  no  secret  that  the  choice  practi- 
cally lies  between  two  men.  most  worthy  both.     All 
I  have  to  say   is  this,  that  either  one  will  suit  me. 
As  an  old  man  said  once  when  he  went  into  the  sta- 
tion at  Buffalo— he  had  Scottish  blood,  like  myscH. 
Pm  afraid—but  anyhow,  he  went  up  to  the  wicket 
and  said  :  ■  Give  me  a  ticket  to  Springfield.'     •  Do 
you  mean  Springfield.  Ohio,  or  Springfield.  Massa- 
chusetts.?'  said    the   clerk.       'Well,    which    is   the 
cheapest?'  replied  the  Scotchman.     Now  I  tell  you 
that  story.  ladies  and  gentlemen,  because  it  doesn't 
fit-j"^t  as  we  call  the  prcsidi..g  officer  of  the  House 


;s6 


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f 


il 


tlic  Speaker,  because  he  doesn't  speak— that  story 
doesn't  fit,  because  there  are  no  cheap  Conservatives. 
And  I  shall  welcome  whichever  one  yoi  choose,  and 
Rive  him  a  fitting  part  to  play  in  the  upbuilding  of 
our  beloved  country." 

When  the  applause,  which  was  as  long  as  v  cifer- 
ous,  had  subsided,  nominations  were  called  for.  And 
as  was  anticipated  there  were  but  two,  all  others  re- 
tiring in  favour  of  either  Arthur  Dustan  or  Irwin 
Mcnzics. 

Then  came  the  speeches  from  these  two.     Irwin's 
was  brief  but  effective,  and  the  I'remier  on  the  plat- 
form at  his  side  was  soon  aware  of  the  chief  source 
of  the  speaker's  inspiration.     For  ever  and  anon  the 
eyes  of  Irwin  RIenzies  turned  in  swift  and  earnest 
glances  towards  the  gracious  face  and  fragile  figure 
of  a  woman  four  or  five  seats  from  the  front  of  the 
hall.     A  warm  and  tender  smile  came  over  the  face 
of  the  statesman  when,  after  keen  observation  for  a 
moment  or  two,  the  marked  resemblance  told   him 
that  the  flushed  .?nd  radiant  face  was  that  of  the 
young  man's  mother;  and  many  eyes  besides  that 
searching  pair  of  his  were  turned   on  the  sensitive 
and   responsive   features,   pride   stamped    on   every 
lineament. 

Next   came    Mr.  Arthur   Dustan.     The   applause 
that  greeted  him  seemed  about  equal  to  that  which 


••?j,'ArM& 


i 


7he   RIGHT   HON.,     Tin-    PKliMlliR      y^-j 

had  clicercd  the  previous  sptakcr—aiid  the  excite- 
ment, with  tlie  tleepcniiiij  untertaiiuy,  became  in- 
tenbe.  Midway  in  his  addre>.s  Iru  in  had  occision  to 
interrupt  his  Dpponcnt;  a  sharp  aUercation  lollowed, 
the  issue  decidedly  favourable  to  Iruin,  This  \no' 
vokcd  a  hot  thni-t  from  Ihistan.  well-parncd  by  his 
antagonist.  Whereupon,  iii  a  sudden  j;ust  of  pas- 
sion, antjered  by  the  jci nii^'  l.m-liter  from  a  larjje 
section  of  his  audience,  iie  suddeiny  appealed  tu  the 
thronj;  with  rash  and  bitter  wurds 

"And  anyhow,  ladies  and    gentlemen,"  he  burst 
out,  trembling  with  anj;er,  ••  there  s  another  side  to 
all    this   matter— and  it's  time    for   plain  speaking. 
Which  of  us  two,  from  ever)-  personal  standpoint— 
which  of  us  two  has  the  better  rij.;ht  to  represent  this 
county  in   the  Domini. -n   Parliament?     I  was  born 
among  you— he  abroad.     I.  or  those  who  bear  my 
name,  have  given  employment  to  hundreds  right  here 
in  Glen  Ridge— he  lias  hail  all  he  could  do  to  sup- 
port himself.     My  father  has  been  one  of  the  m..>t 
useful  citizens  of  all  this  ret^ion— my  opponent  </ois 
not  kno:o  who  his  father  is."  the  words  coming  out 
With  a  splenetic  rush  that  was  almost  like  a  hiss,  and 
he  turned,  his  head  thrust  far  forward  towards  Irwin, 
and    poured  upon  him  the  contempt  of  a  haughty 
and    middencd    face.      "And   if  you  prefer,   ladies 
and  " 


^,:.>^ 


-<  THE   HANDICAP 

Hut  he  got  no  further.     With  one  bound  Irwii 

towered  at  his  side,  liis  face  terrible  to  behold  in  it 

dark  and  'owering  wrath.     The  President  sat  petri 

Tied ;  as  for  the  old  Chieftain,  he  was  pale  as  tin 

wall   behind  him.     Mighty,  looking  twice  his   size 

Irwin  stood  beside  his  antagonist,  the  latter's  face 

still  upturned  in  malignant  scorn  ;  Irwin's  arm  was 

uplifted,  and   had   all   but   fallen— when,  suddenly, 

seizing  h'mself  in  the  clutches  of  a  mighty  will,  and 

appearing  to  shake  himself  like  one  awaking  from  a 

troubled  sleep,  he  stepped  back.     Resolutely,  yet  a? 

if  reluctantly,  his  eyes  still  fixed  greedily  on  the  man 

before  him,  one  stej)  at  a  time,  fighting  his  backward 

w?/,  wresthng  with  himself  like  one  who  struggles 

not  against  fiesh  and  blood,  his  pale   lips  working 

spasmodically,  his  clinched  hands  held  rigidly  by  his 

side,  he  slowly  worked  his  way  back,  back,  further 

from  the  vortex  that  nad  so  nearly  engulfed  him. 

He  reached  his  chair,  sat  down  on  it  for  a  mo- 
ment, his  form  quivering  as  he  buried  his  face  in  his 
handfi.  Presently  that  face  emerged— but  with  what 
a  transformation  !  The  (lame  of  passion  had  died 
out  from  it  as  the  colour  fades  from  the  hectic  sky. 
In  its  place  there  sat  an  ineffable  sadness,  tenderly 
brooding,  troubled  and  distraught,  as  though  he  had 
heard  the  cry  of  one  in  pain.  Evidently  Dustan  was 
forgotten,  more  than  forgotten  now ;  for,  turning  in 


<       r 


.■*'■'- ."^ 


^A*i 


;."t -i 


■The   RIGHT   HON.,    The   PREMIER      y.q 

his  chair,  Irwin's  eyes  roved  to  the  sea  of  faces  be- 
fore   hi.n,    searching,   wistfully    searching,   as    une 
might  peer  for  some  beloved  face  above  a  waste  of 
waters.     His   eyes  leaped  to  where  she  sat;  erect 
no  longer  now,  but  bowed  and  trembling  in  a  guht  oi 
agony,  he  beheld  the  familiar  form.     Whereat  he 
rose,  like  one  in  a  dream,  and  pressed  towards  the 
stair  at  the  side  of  the  platform.     On  his  way  to  it 
he  passed  Dustan  by;  ihe  latter  turned  quickly,  as- 
suming an  attitude  of  defense— but  Irwin  saw  him 
not.     Nor  did  he  pause  till  he  reached  his  mother's 
side.     And  there  he  stood  a  moment,  then  turned, 
sweeping  the  multitude  before  him  with  a  look  of 
such  majesty  as  they  had  never  seen  before ;  pride, 
and  high  scorn  of  shame,  and  defiance  of  all  who 
would  impugn  his  name ;  and  love,  tender  and  strong 
and  true,  for  the  crushed  and  broken  voman  bowed 
before  him— all  these  looked  out  from  the  glowing 
face  whose  stern  strong  eyes  lit  it  up  as  thouf,'],  it 
were  a  banner  flung  to  the  morning  sun. 

Then  he  bended  low.  He  spoke  no  word— at 
least  not  at  first— but  slowly,  with  unspeakable 
strength  and  tenderness,  reverence  evident  in  every 
move,  he  touched  the  thin  shoulders  witli  both  his 
hands,  the  grasp  gently  spreading  till  he  had— all  un- 
conscious of  the  crowd  about  him,  and  as  indifferent 
as  unconscious— taken  her  into  the  loving  shelter  of 


^6o 


THE   HANDICAP 


his  arms.     Gently  he  stroked  the  whitening  locivs  of 
hair ;  once  or  twice  he  patted  her,  as  though  she 
were  a  child  wounded  and  in  pain.     Then  he  softly 
whispered  a  word  or  two ;  the  bowed  head  moved  in 
answer — and   without    furllier  word    or    sound   he 
gently  helped  her  to  her  feet,  bearing  her  outward 
with  him  to  the  aisle,  for  he  knew  her  strength  was 
gone.     With  courtly  grace,  like  some  cavalier  before 
his  queen,  he  took  her  arm   uithin  his  own;  she 
clung  to  him,  leaning  heavily,  her  gaze  never  lifted 
from  the  floor.     And  thus  they  went  down  the  pas- 
sageway together.     Her  sad  eyes  were  downcast,  as 
has  been  said— but  his  head  was  borne  aloft  that  all 
might  see  the  look  of  love  and  pride  upon  it.    With 
what  dignity,  accommodating  his  strong  step  to  her 
feeble  pace,  he  walked  down  the  aisle  beside  her ! 
Like  a  very  king  he  walked— and  once  or  twice,  not 
knowing  what  he  did,  he  turned  to  look  down  upon 
his  mother  in  a  fullness  of  loyalty  and  devotion  that 
was  beautiful  to  behold,  murmuring  some  word  that 
no  other  ear  could  bear. 

It  was  some  rustic,  no  doubt  untutored  and  un- 
couth, yet  sccretl)'  taught  of  heaven,  who  was  first 
inspired  to  rise  in  homage.  For  to  his  feet,  scarce 
knowing  why,  one  such  rude  swain  did  suddenly 
rise — and  in  a  moment,  moved  by  a  common  im- 
pulse, every  one  of  the  great  throng  was  standing  in 


xy 


The   RIGHT   HON.,    The    PREMIER.       361 

silent  deference  as  the  mother  and  son  passed  down 
among  them  and  departed  noiselessly  at  the  door. 

They  were  still  standing,  and  with  tears  on  many 
a  bronzed  and  weathered  cheek,  when,  his  whole 
fr^me  astorm  with  the  emotion  that  possessed  him, 
the  Prime  Minister,  his  pale  face  wrung  with  the 
feeling  he  could  not  control,  almost  leaped  to  the 
front  of  the  platform. 

"  Three  cheers  for  Mr.  Menzies  !  "  he  shouted,  the 
words  ablaze  as  they  came  in  that  voice  that  knew 
the  mastery  of  assemblies ;  "  three  cheers — three 
royal  cheers,  I  say ! "  his  long  arm  aloft  as  he  led  the 
mighty  outcry. 

They  came — and  more  than  three — echoing  long 
and  loud.  And  the  ocean  of  sound,  like  the  Atlantic 
in  a  storm,  outflung  its  billows  far  till  they  engulfed 
in  gladness  the  two  receding  .""orms  that  had  left  the 
throng  behind.  Margaret  Menzies  turned  a  mo- 
ment, looking  her  gratitude  towards  the  echoing 
hall ;  but  her  son  cast  no  glance  behind. 

Then  the  vote  was  taken — and  Irwin  Menzies* 
triumph  was  complete. 


li 


iam 


'I 


XXVI 
S/R  JOHN   /i.S    HANDIIVQRK 

THK  excited  multitude  filed  slowly  from  the 
hall.     One  of  the  first  to  depart— and  all 
alone— was  Arthur  Uustan.     The  ghost  of 
a  dead  hope  looked  from  his  eyes.     Yet  those  same 
eyes  brightened  as  they  fell  a  moment  later  on  what 
was  evidently  the  object  of  his  search— (or  he  knew 
the  road  she  would  likely  choose.     Well  had  it  been 
for  him  could  he  have  read  the  portentous  tidings 
that  were  stamped  on  Nora  Riley's  face  as  she  hur- 
ried swiftly  homeward  by  a  deserted  street.     But  his 
was  not  the  seeing  eye.  nor  his  the  discerning  heart. 
Wherefore  his  manner  ivas  jaunty  as  of  yore  when 
a    few    hurried    steps    brought   him    up   with   her. 
"  Well,  he's  got  his  nomination,   curse  him,"  were 
his    opening  words—"  but   he    hasn't  got  what  he 
wants  the  most."  turning  on  Nora  a  glance  as  tender 
as  the  spirit  of  the  hour  would  permit.     ■•  I  wouldn't 
trade  him  yet-he'd   give  his   M.  P.,  and  his  head 
along  with  it.  for  something  ten  times  as  sweet- 
something  that's  mine,"  compelling  a  smile  as  proud 
and  gracious  as  was  within  his  power. 

362 


S/R  JOHN   A.S    HANDIirORK     :  j 

But  with  the  next  glance  the  words  he  was  ai.Miit 
to  utter   froze   upon   his  hps.     For  never  bclure  had 
he  seen  a  face  more  eloquent  of   scorn    and  c-ii- 
tempt,  almost  of  loathing.     The  girl  stopped,  spcalc- 
ing  not  a  word.     Jiut  her  eyes  were  fixed  on   Ins 
with  such  a  glance  as  permitted  of    no  misunder- 
standing.    They  Hashed  their  message  ;  clearer  tluui 
any   words   could   have   told   him    they  spoke   tiie 
verdict  of  her  heart.     Her  form  was  drawn  to  its  full 
height,  so  that  it  seemed  to  tower  above  hira  where 
he  stood.     Still   she   gazed,   the  burning  eyes  still 
pouring  out  the  tumult  of  her  soul.     His  gaze  an- 
swered to  her  own  for  a  few  brief  moments  ;  then, 
although   his   eyes  were  now  cast  down,  he  tried 
further  speech. 

••  What's  this  all  about,  Nora  ?  "  he  began  embar- 
rassedly  ;  "  this  is  something  new— surely  you  don't 
mean " 

"  Stop  ! "  she  crieci,  like  one  in  pain.  "  Go  away. 
Go  away— I  hate  you,"  and  with  a  feeble  cry,  all  her 
dignity  departed  now,  she  turned  the  other  way  and 
broke  into  a  little  run,  as  though  she  were  fleeing 
from  some  dread  thing  of  the  forest. 

He  followed  a  step  or  two  ;  but  the  air  about  him 
was  still  vibrant  with  the  cry,  its  deadly  reality  not 
to  be  mistaken.  Stopping  and  standing  still,  he 
gazed  a   moment  after  the   retreating   figure,   then 


364 


THE  HANDICAP 


turned  an  adjoining  corner  and  walked  swiftly  home- 
ward. 

Meantime,  another  was  interested  in  something 
far  more  thrilling  than  the  mere  selection  of  a  man 
to  fill  a  seat  in  a  distant  House  of  Parliament.  And 
that  other  was  Sir  John,  the  First  Minister  of  the 
Queen  in  the  fairest  of  her  Possessions  beyond  the 
Seas. 

"  Bring  me  that  man  Menzies,"  he  said  to  one  of 
the  faithful  before  the  gathering  was  well  dispersed 
— and  his  tone  showed  that  he  wished  to  be  obeyed 
at  once  ;  "  he  belongs  to  me  now,  you  know.  Get 
him  before  he  starts  out  to  the  country — he's  a 
farmer,  I  believe.  And  fetch  him  to  The  Buck 
Tavern — I've  got  to  see  him." 

Thither  Sir  John  repaired  at  once,  to  wait  for  his 
newly  elected  henchman,  Irwin  was  soon  dis- 
covered ;  the  news  of  his  victory  left  his  mother  in  a 
slate  of  bliss  before  which  even  so  bitter  a  sorrow  as 
her  own  was  forced  to  yield  ;  and  kind  hearts  cared 
for  her  until  her  son  should  return  after  he  had 
answered  the  summons  of  his  Leader. 

"  Sit  down  here,  my  boy,"  said  the  Statesman  as 
Irwin  entered  the  little  room  that  had  been  secured 
for  the  interview.  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  And 
first,  let  me  congratulate  you— tliat  was  a  magnif- 
icent   impulse    of    yours    this    afternoon.     It   was 


S/R  JOHN   A:S   HAND/IVORK    j(>5 

beautiful,  my  boy — I  don't  know  when  I'nis  old 
heart  of  mine  was  so  full  as  you  made  it  lu-day, " 
and  there  was  a  tremor  in  the  voice  of  the  master 
as  he  came  over  to  the  younger  man  ;  very  ^;cnlly 
his  arm  crept  over  the  shoulder  of  his  fullowcr, 
and  if  Irwin'f  head  had  not  been  bent  so  low  he 
would  have  seen  the  mist  in  the  wonderful  eyes ; 
"  it  was  like  the  fourteenth  of  St.  John,  boy, 
for  tenderness — and  I  know  the  good  Lord  will 
make  it  all  up  to  you,  nobody  else  can.  Yes,  it  was 
beautiful,"  he  went  on  almost  to  himself;  "  I  never 
saAV  as  much  strength,  and  as  much  gentleness,  both 
together — I  don't  think  I  ever  did.  And  I  want  to 
send  something  to  that  mother  of  yours,  my  lad," 
his  hand  going  to  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat  as  he 
spoke.  "  Here's  a  picture  of '  the  Old  Man,'  as  they 
call  me;  it's  as  handsome  as  an  inscrutable  Providence 
would  permit — no  more  and  no  less — but  it's  a  picture 
of  the  Old  Man,  anyhow,  such  as  he  is.  Here,  I'll 
just  autograph  it  now,"  taking  from  the  table  a  pen 
which  had  been  put  there  for  his  use :  "  '  To  an  un- 
known friend — from  one  who  honours  her  . '  and 
there's  my  signature,"  he  concluded  with  a  flourish 
of  the  pen. 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  you  something — I  had  this  in  my 
pocket  to  give  to  the  head  heeler  here  when  I 
should  bid    him    good-bye ;  often    do    that    for   the 


^o6 


THE   HANDICAP 


local  man  that  kind  of  leads  the  party — always,  if 
they  haven't  children  ;   if  there's  a  baby,  I  ki-^s  it, 
of  course,"  making  a  wry  face  towards  Irwin  as  he 
n)entioned  the  process ;    ••  if   not,  I  generally  give 
them  a  photo.     Hut  the  Great  Mogul  here  will  just 
have  to  go  without  any  this  time  ;  sei^s  him  right, 
anyhow— it'll   teach  him  to  get  married  and  have 
babies  to  fill  up  the  Tory  ranks  with.     So  I  want 
you  to  give  this  picture  to  your  mother— and  my 
love  goes  with  it—and  tell  her  I  hope  to  meet  her 
where  I'll  have  time  to  cultivate  my  friends.     The 
first  three  million  years  I'm  in  heaven,  do  you  know 
what  I'm  going  to  do,  IMenzies  ?— I'm  going  to  sit 
by  the  golden  river  and  hsten  to  its  music,  and  never 
make  a  speech  or  kiss  a  baby  or  see  a  deputation  or 
tinker  with  a  tariflT— just  rest  and  visit  for  the  first 
three   mil  on  years,"  a  plaintive  look  of   yearning 
actually  mingling  with  the  drollery  on  the  mercurial 
face. 

Irwin  took  the  photograph,  gazed  at  it  a  moment, 
then  be£;an  such  expression  of  gratitude  as  he  best 
could.     Hut  his  leader  stopped  him. 

"  Tut !  tut !  none  of  that."  he  interrupted,  "  thr 
boot's  on  the  other  foot— and  anyhow,  Menzies.  that 
isn't  what  I  wanted  to  see  you  about ;  not  principally, 
at  least.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  to  do  something  for 
me — that  is,  fur  the  party." 


m 


SIR  JOHN  /l.S   HANDIWORK    y^^ 

Irwin  started,  straightening  himself  up ;  his  face 
showed  his  eagerness  to  serve. 

"  I'm  your  leader  now,  you  know?  "  the  withered 
face  lighting  up  with  a  peculiar  smile. 

Irwin's  assent  was  swift,  if  silent. 

"  And  wha#  I'm  going  to  ask  is  partly  in  the 
form  of  an  order ;  a  request,  at  least — for  party  pur- 
poses.    Will  you  do  as  I  request  you  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  will,  Sir  John,"  and  the  glowing 
countenance  told  how  heartfelt  were  the  words. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is.  There's  a  member 
of  our  party  here—right  here  in  Glen  Ridge — that's 
always  been  solid  for  us,  so  far  as  I  know.  Hut  I 
was  talking  to  that  same  individual  to-day.  And  I'm 
afraid  some  words  of  mine  may  have  given  just  the 
least  little  bit  of  offense — nothing  serious,  you  know, 
but  still  I'm  nervous  about  it — and  that's  why  I  want 
your  help,  my  boy.  We  can't  afford  to  lose  any  of 
our  friends,  you  know." 

"  I  understand,  Sir  John,"  Irwin  bt(  ke  in  cor- 
dially ;  "  I  understand  you  perfectly—}  cm  want  me 
to  see  this  man  and  make  everything  all  right  with 
him  ?  " 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  the  chief  returned,  and  even 
here  his  imperiousness  could  f  ";  felt,  "  and  I'll  tell 
you  what  I  want  you  to  do.  I  want  your  promise 
that  you  will  see  this  individual,  this  very  day;  and 


lip 


)b8 


THE   H  Ah  Die  A  P 


that  you  will  get  a  pronnse  to  stand  by  my  lieutenant 
-—I  mean  you,  Mcnzics— in  .my  way  that  wili  con- 
tribute to  his  success  and  happiness.  Will  you 
promise  me  that?"  the  ken  eyes  searchinj;  the 
face  of  the  younger  man  as  he  waited  fui  the  reply. 

Irwin's  answer  came  with  impetuous  lia.->te. 
"  Promise  you  !  I  should  think  I  would.  Sir  John— 
I  '!'!  promise  you  ;  and  Ml  fulfill  it  this  very  day." 

iiie  I  iiicliain  held  out  his  hand.  "  I'ut  it  there. 
my  boy,"  he  said,  the  eloquent  lips  twite hing  a  httle 
as  was  tiinr  wont  under  deep  emotion. 

liwin  seized  the  proffereil  hand.  "What's  the 
man's  name,  Sir  John  ?  "  he  asked,  -inpatient  to  fulfill 
his  promise. 

"  Nora  Riley  !  "  and  the  i'remier's  face  was  a  study 
as  he  leaned  far  forward  towards  the  startled  youth. 
"  And  it's  a  name  that  ought  to  be  set  to  music— it's 
a  poem,  sir." 

Irwin  started  back.  .Silent  a  moment,  he  then 
broke  out  in  a  storm  of  protest,  and  inquiry,  and  ex- 
planation. "  You  don't  know,  Sir  John,"  he  repeated 
more  than  once  as  he  hurried  on,  "or  else  you 
wouldn't  ask  me— you  don't  know  all  the  circum- 
stances, or  else " 

But  now  Sir  John  was  moving  towards  the  door. 

I  ve   got  to  g<),"  lie  said,  smilmj^r   '-•.xaspctatingiy ; 
"  I   have  to  leave  this  burgh  in  hall  an  honr.     But 


V'i 


,-«if-" 


/.-..•  r I  ■  v.i_  J... 


»^ 


S/R  JOHN   .l.'S   HANUl^yOKK    ?<»9 

I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  young  man— I  wasn't  b«)rn 
yesterday.  And  another  thui^,  -I  know  more  than 
you  think-  for.  Aid  still  another  thing— I'm  no- 
body's fool — if  you  don't  believe  me,  ask  M'c  Gnts. 
They  know,  my  son."  dutcklin<,T  t-  hiiii'^<  if  as  he  put 
his  hand  out  to  ihc  door. 

Hut  Iruin,  for^rlliil  «.l  l'rcmicr^>hip  and  all  things 
beside,  threw  hini>clf  ag  linst  it  .nul  held  il  last. 
"  Owt  word.  Sir  John."  he  tried  eagerly,  his  lace 
flushed  and  hot ;  '  do  )  »u  uuan  that— do  you  really 
mean  you  kuoic  .'  " 

Sir  John  turneJ  and  looked  U  him  ;  more  signifi- 
cant look  ;iever  came  from  human  eye.  "  Yes,  my 
boy,"  he  began  slowly  after  a  lengthy  pause,  •'  1 
really  mean  it.  I  do  know— know  i  vcrything.  I 
know  yoa  think  you've  won  a  great  victory  in  that 
fight  to-day  -and  I  know  you  think  yo  re  hanpy. 
Hut.  my  boy,  your  real  fight's  only  beginning. 
You've  captued  the  outworks — now  take  tht-  citi- 
dcl.  You've  only  got  tiie  casket — win  your  j(- vcl 
then  you'll  know  what  real  happiness  is.  Yes,  1 
know,  my  boy,  I  know." 

"Did  you  ever  see  her.  Sir  John?"  Irwin  stam- 
mered wildly. 

The  Premier  smiled  indulgently.  "  Yes,  T  saw  her 
-talked  to  her;  wanted  like  the  deuce  to  kiss  her 
too— only  they  say  I'-n  a  pretty  good  judge  of  hu- 


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«lb?<«Hlft"T^-*MW«'^H*i ,  •  '  -YA.>-  'f^: 


370 


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man  nature,  and  that's  the  only  reason  I  didn't.     If 

she  were  twins — and  I  were  forty  years  younger 

you  and  I'd  be  brothers-in-law,  Menzies.     Well,  I've 
got  to  go,  my  boy." 

"  You  talked  to  her.  Sir  John— and  you  still  hold 
me  to  my  promise  ?  "  came  from  the  half-intoxicated 
youth  beside  him,  his  lips  parted,  his  brow  already 
wet. 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  I  do — I  hold  you  to  your  promise. 
And  it's  to  be  fulfilled  to-day,  you  know.  They  call 
me  •  Old  To-morrow  '—perhaps  I  am,  but  I'll  have 
to  try  and  bring  the  boys  up  differently.  God  bless 
you,  Menzies— and  her  too— I'm  going  now.  You 
stay  here  and  get  down  on  your  marrows  beside 
that  bed  and  thank  heaven  for  sending  me  your  way. 
Good-bye,"  and  the  old  Chief  closed  the  door  behind 
him  and  hurried  down  the  stairs. 

A  moment  later  he  was  entering  his  carnage. 
"Drive  me  to  Riley's,"  he  directed— "  where  you 
took  me  this  morning." 

Nora  was  in  the  tiny  sitting-room  when  the  Pre- 
mier was  shown  in.  If  her  greeting  was  free  from 
agitation  it  yet  evinced  the  surprise  and  wonder  she 
could  not  help  but  feel.  As  before,  her  bearing  was 
deferential  and  dignified ;  but  now  she  felt  the  warm 
outgoing  of  her  heart  to  this  remarkable  man  as  she 
had  seldom  felt  it  before  towards  mortal.     She  had 


SIR  JOHN   A:S    HAND/H'ORK    ;;: 

been  overswept  that  day  by  the  splendour  of  his  im- 
pulse, the  noble  tide  of  his  emotion  when  he  had  led 
the  great  throng  in  the  expression  of  their  highest 
feehng — and  she  had  seen  his  great  soul  in  flames, 
as  through  heavenly  gates  ajar. 

"  Keep  your  seat,  madam,"  said  Sir  John,  bowing 
with  a  grace  that  would  have  befitted  palace  halls ; 
"  I  only  dropped  in  to  say  good-bye.  I  have  but  a 
moment  Were  you  at  the  meeting  this  afternoon, 
my  child  ? "  he  inquired,  his  tone  taking  on  the 
fatherly  note  again. 

"  Yes,  Sir  John,"  she  answered  simply ;  "  yes,  I 
was  there.' 

Sir  John  studied  her  a  moment.  •'  I'm  afraid  I'll 
have  to  confess  that  I  was  glad  things  went  the  way 
they  did  to-day,"  he  went  on,  his  face  as  serious  as 
his  words  save  for  that  slight  and  uncontrollable 
twitch  about  the  corners  of  the  mobile  mouth,  "  but 
I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  sympathize  with  you  just 
the  same — I  know  how  disappointed  you  must  have 
been,  my  child.  But  life  is  full  of  just  such  disap- 
pointments," the  telltale  corners  more  uncontrollable 
than  ever — "  and  anyhow,  I'm  sure  it's  all  for  the 
best ;  you  will  have  your  Arthur  all  to  yourself  now, 
you  know,"  the  twinkle  returning  to  the  roguish  eye. 

Nora  cast  a  quick  and  searching  look  at  the  old 
Chief  above  her.     "  Pardon  my  saying  so,  Sir  John," 


;;SK^-'">». 


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the  girl  answered  evasively,  "  but  I  fear  you  are  not 
an  authority  on  the  subject  of  disappointments. 
Your  life  has  been  one  long  success — your  tide  has 
been  always  at  the  full,"  she  rather  stammered  out, 
amazed  at  the  boldness  of  her  speech. 

The  oil'  man  looked  at  her  long  in  silence.  That 
sensitive  mouth  spoke  again,  without  the  aid  of 
words — and  the  grave  eyes  were  dewy  soft.  *'  That's 
what  the  world  says,"  he  began,  a  little  catch  in 
the  words,  "  but  that's  all  they  know  about  it. 
I  know  what  it  is  to  pass  through  great  sorrow, 
my  child — possibly  you've  heard  of  mine,  probably 
not — it  has  cast  its  shadow  through  the  years.  I 
don't  often  speak  of  it — but  the  worst  wounds  are 
those  that  bleed  beneath  the  armour ;  and  when  I  do, 
it  is  only  to  those  I  trust — and  love,"  the  girl's  crim- 
son face  going  down  before  the  words.  •'  But  I  often 
think  a  wise  God  permitted  it  to  happen  me,  just  to 
teach  me  what  success  really  is.  Do  you  think  I  call 
all  this  success  ? "  he  went  on  tensely,  waving  his 
hand  towards  the  outer  world,  "all  this  fus  and 
feathers,  this  brass  band  business,  this  *  Hurrah 
boys  '  ?  It's  all  moonshine,"  he  declared  contemp- 
tuously ;  "  and  all  the  rest  of  it  too,  wealth,  fame,  or 
all  the  pleasures  that  they  bring.  These  are  only 
life's  scaffolding,  nn-  child,  nothing  but  scafifolding 
— the  real  structure  of  life  is  love ;  that's  where  we 


■    -  '  '^   '    :'■: 


SIR  JOHN   A:S   HAKDIIVORK    ^-} 

succeed  or  fail,  Nora — you  will  let  me  call  you  that 

if  we  succeed  there,  it's  all  success,  but  if  we  fail 

there  it's  all  failure. 

"  Ah,  Nora,  the  old  man  isn't  past  all  this  tender 
business  yet ;  and  I  still  know  all  the  symptoms— of 
heart  affection— just  as  well  as  I  did  forty  years  af;o. 
But  all  I  .  .n  do  is  to  give  you  my  apostolic  blessing, 
and  wish  you  the  brand  of  happiness  that  only  love 
can  bring ;  tuen  you  will  have  a  successful  Ufe,  my 
child— bi't  there's  no  other  way,  there's  no  other 
royal  path  to  rapture,"  making  as  if  to  depart  with 
the  closing  words. 

Suddenly  he  paused,  returning  to  where  she  sat 
bowed  before  him.  "  You'll  always  be  my  friend, 
Nora,  won't  you  ?  "  he  said  gently ;  "  I  haven't  so 
very  many — not  of  the  inivard  kind,  at  least." 

Nora  looked  up  gratefully.  "  You  know,  Sir 
John,"  she  faltered. 

"  And  you'll  stick  to  our  side?"  he  went  on,  the 
mirthful  note  in  his  voice  again ;  "  you'll  stand  by 
the  old  Man,  the  old  Flag,  the  old  Policy,  won't  you, 
Nora  ?  " 

She  looked  up  again,  the  light  of  laughter  flashing 
through  the  tears. 

"  I  knew  it,"  he  said.  "  Well,  there's  one  thing  I 
want  you  to  do  for  the  party.  I've  asked  one  of  the 
faithful  to  call  on  you  to-day— and  explain  just  how 


374 


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you  can  help — and  I  want  you  to  promise  you'll  re- 
ceive him  kindly,  and  do  what  you  can  lor  him. 
This  is  all  for  my  sake,  of  course,"  he  added  banter- 
ingly,  the  half-merry,  half-serious  eyes  never  hfted 
from  her  face. 

Her  head  bowed  lower;  the  tide  of  hot  emotion 
mantled  neck  rnd  cheek  and  brow;  the  wonderful 
eyes  were  turned  aside.  He  pressed  his  request  no 
further.  "  Good-bye,"  he  said,  the  words  all  tender- 
ness now ;  "  good-bye,  my  child,  and  God  bless 
you — and  him.  You  won't  deny  the  old  man  this 
little  favour — it  has  no  campaign  value,"  the  smile 
flitting  to  his  hps,  then  away,  as  he  gently  raised  the 
crimson  face  upward  to  his  own.  "  Good-bye — till 
we  meet  again,"  with  which  he  turned  and  walked 
slowly  from  the  room. 

The  voices  of  the  night  were  beginning  to  be 
heard  around  the  lowly  cottage  as  Nora  sat,  subdued 
and  silent,  and  struggUng  with  a  wildly  insurgent 
heart,  beside  her  father's  bed. 

They  both  !;eard  the  knock  when  at  last  it  sounded 
on  the  door.  But  it  was  Dinny  who  frankly  avowed 
there  was  some  one  rapping — it  was  Nora  who  pro- 
tested there  could  be  no  one  there. 

••  Why,  it's  Irwin,"  she  suddenly  declared,  after  a 
swift  glance  from  the  window.     She  had  barely  seen 


-^a^    ,-' 


S/R  JOHW   ^:S   HANDnvORK    "5 

the  shadow;'  form  in  the  gathering  gloom — but  if 
Fate  hini.stjlf  had  stood  knocking  at  the  door  she 
could  not  have  trembled  more.  "  I'll  brini,'  him  up,"' 
she  said,  setting  her  white  lips  close  together. 

"  Nary  a  bit  av  it,  my  darlint,"  the  sick  man  [  ro- 
tested,  looking  away  from  Nora,  "  I  don't  feel  like 
seein'  aunybody  to-night.  Close  the  dour,  girl,"  he 
directed  as  she  was  about  to  leave  him,  "  an'  mebbe 
I'll  get  a  bit  o'  sleep  while  ye're  away."  Then,  as 
soon  as  the  door  was  closed,  he  winked  shamelessly 
towards  the  dim  image  of  himself  in  a  mirror  oppo- 
site the  bed. 

Nora  admitted  the  silent  visitor,  struggling  hard 
to  summon  the  surprise  she  knew  she  ought  to  feel. 
His  face  was  whiter  than  her  own — but  neither  could 
see  well,  so  friendly  was  the  dark. 

"  Please  don't,"  Irwin  said  faintly,  as  she  searched 
for  a  match  from  the  mantel  of  the  little  sitting-room. 
"  I  won't  be  a  minute — and  it  isn't  necessary.  I 
came,  I  was  sent,  I  came,  to  ask  a  favour.  I  prom- 
ised Sir  John — and  I  wanted  to— and  it's  this  ;  do 
please  sit  down,"  for  lie  himself  in  his  agitation  was 
at  the  farmo-t  corner  of  the  room,  "  Oh^  Nora,"  the 
voice  breaking  and  rippling  like  some  passionate 
stream  that  frets  its  way  through  cleft  and  channel ; 
"  oh,  Nora,  we  want  your  help — he  wants  you  to  do 
what  you  can  for  me — that  is,  Nora,  there's  onlv  one 


376 


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thing  you  can  do— oh,  Nora,  I  love  you  so,  ami  I 
cannot  Hve  without  you  !     And  I  want  you,  my  dar- 
ling—oh, my  darhng,  nobody  sent  mc  here  Ijut  my 
own  lonely  heart— I  love  you— have  always  loved 
you ;  and  I  want  you,  Nora,  for  my  own,  my  very 
own,    now,   always,   forever,"    his   voice    gathering 
strength  as  he  slowly  moved  across  the  room,  his 
arms  outstretched,  nearer,  ever  nearer  to  where  she 
stood  beside  the  door,  the  willowy  form  trembling 
like  a  reed  of  the  wilderness  when  smitten  by  some 
wind  from  afar.     "  I'm  coming,  Nora,"  he  spoke  low 
amid  the  darkness  ;  "  oh,  my  darling.  I'm  coming— to 
you— to  take  you,  and  hold  you  in  my  arms,  tight,  in 
the  shelter  of  their  love,  my  darling,  the  love  that  is 
all  for  you.     Let  me  come,  my  own— and  j'ou  will 
come  to  me— and  we  will  part  no  more  forever ! " 

Thus,  thus  at  last !  Together,  they  two,  for  both 
of  whom  Life  had  been  so  maimed,  to  whom  Fate 
had  seemed  so  cruel ;  the  one  enshadowed  by  that 
dark  cloud,  which,  frowning  at  his  birth,  the  bright- 
est day  of  life  can  hardly  dissipate— the  other,  by  as- 
sociations and  surroundings  such  as  blight  and  mar 
and  separate.  Yet  in  that  hour  all  these  were  but  as 
the  dust.  Perhaps— who  knows  ?— some  thought  of 
this  coursed  through  their  thrilled  and  raptured 
hearts  as  life  found  its  crown,  life's  problem  its  solu- 
tion, at  long  last  and  forever.     Together,  each  the 


SIR  JOHN   A:S   HANniU'ORK    ^77 

other's,  never  to  be  poor,  never  to  be  despised  a^ain, 
independent  of  everything  but  God,  riched  and  en- 
riching in  the  mystery  of  mutual  luvc. 

It  was  quite  dark  before  Nora  spoke.  Even  then 
she  only  whispered,  low  and  faint.  "My  kin;^'!" 
were  the  words  she  said — and  love's  anointing  touch 
laid  reverent  seal  upon  the  lips  that  spoke  them. 


XXVII 

"AND    THE   SHADOIVS   FLEE   AlVAV 

ROBERT  GRAYSON  was  as  much  triend  as 
lawyer  to  half  Glen  Ridge ;  and,  so  far  as 
Dinny  was  concerned,  he  iiad  been  far  more 
the  former  than  the  latter.  Wherefore,  though  long 
past  his  appointed  "ffice  hours,  he  lost  no  time  in 
answering  the  summons  from  the  house  of  deatli. 

He  went  in  alone,  moving  quickly  with  out- 
stretched hand  towards  the  bed  where  Dinny  lay. 
There  was  quite  a  pathetic  catch  in  his  voice  as  he 
asked  his  old  friend  how  he  fared— for,  alai.,  it  needed 
but  a  glance  to  know. 

«  Close  that  there  door,"  Dinny  requested  faintly ; 
..  shut  it  tight — I  don't  want  annybody  near  hand  us 
now— an'  sit  down  forninst  me.     I  want  to  fix  up 

my  will." 

"  Fix  it  up,  Dinny  ?  "  echoed  the  lawyer,  his  eye- 
brows lifted  ;  •'  it's  all  fixed,  man." 

"  I  want  to  put  one  o'  them  there  finishin'  touches 
on  ;  I  forget  what  >'e  call  'em— the  word  begins  wid 
the  name  av  a  fish,  I  mind." 

Mr.  Grayson  smiled.    "  You  mean  a  codicil,  don't 

378 


"-"mi''  K-i^J<^Mtx^^iz^.jSf:^..}^ ,  y-ie&.t.'isMi:'r     iftll^.:^£.l^'^^^lL. 


••  ASD  The  SHADOH^S  FLEE  AiVAY'     ;79 

y-Mi,    Dinny?    All   right;  I  understand— you  have 
j-..,ir  will  here,  in  the  house,  haven't  yo'.i  ?  " 

"  Ii's  in  that  there  chist,"  Uinny's  weak'  voice  re- 
sponded, "aloMtJ  wid  N'ora's  chribtenin'  rube— U  ••> 
wrapped  up  in  it." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  add  to  your  will,  Dinny?" 
the  lawyer  asked,  leaninfj  over,  paper  and  pencil  ui 
hand.  «'  I'll  just  male  a  memo  here — then  I'll  have 
It  filled  out  in  proper  form  at  the  oiTice  and  added  to 
the  will ;  you  can  sign  it  to-morrow." 

Dinny  smiled  plaintively.  "  Ve'll  do  it  to-night," 
he  answered  resolutely  ;  "  I  won't  be  here  to-morrow. 
It's  a  lo  ig  journey  I'm  goin'  on,  mind  ye— an'  I 
won't  be  back  fer  a  while,"  the  old  whimsical  expres- 
sion on  his  face  again ;  "  for  they  say  it's  lovely 
where  I'm  goin'  to-  I  hope,"  his  eyes  ttrned  in 
wistful  wonder  towards  the  window,  and  Beyond. 
"  So  ye'll  just  go  '-ead  wid  the  repairs  now,  if  ye 
please,  sir." 

The  lawyer,  sympathetic,  made  a  stifled  protest, 
turning    a    moment    later   to    the   matter    in    hand 
•'  Well,  what  is  it,  Dinny?  "  he  said. 

"The    will's  all  right— ye're    sure  o'  that?"  and 
Dinny  nodded  towards  the  oaken  chest,  in  the  corner. 
"  All  right— perfeclly   in    order  every  way— you 
may  rest  easy  about  that." 

"  An'  it  all — ivery  red  cent,  ivery  penny  I — I  in- 


'.  "-^M^SK/Jifc  **teiJ-.'-^*•4^t 


..I^5^. 


2? :.  *«'; 


>\> 


THE   HANDICAP 


hcritcd,  like — it  all  goes  to  Irwin  ?  I  nivcr  took  a 
farthin'  av  it  for  myself,  mind  ye,"  the  slightest  glow 
of  pride  on  the  pallid  face. 

•'  Every  dollar  of  it,"  the  lawyer  replied  tersely — 
"  he  inherits  every  dollar." 

"  Well,"  Dinny  went  on  earnestly, "  there's  just 
wan  request,  like,  I  want  to  make  about  it — an'  that's 
what  I  w-^nt  this  here  codfish  thing  to  do." 

«•  Yes,  Dinn.  ,"  the  lawyer  smiling  faintly. 

"  I  want  Irwin — if  he's  willin',  an'  I  know  he'll  be 
glad — to  buy  The  Buck  Tavern  ;  that's  where  Nora 
come,  sir,  when  she  was  a  wee  fairy  av  a  girl,  an' 
that  was  purty  near  all  the  home  she  ever  had,  poor 
darlint,"  the  words  broken  and  trembling  as  they 
came — "  she  didn't  have  anny  mother.  An'  that's 
where  I  done  my  life-work,  I'm  afeard.  An'  I  want 
Irwin  to  buy  it — an'  it's  always  to  be  called  The 
Buck  Tavern — an'  it's  got  to  be  a  tavern,  too.  Only 
widout  a  bar — there  isn't  to  be  anny  bar.  Got  that 
writ  down,  sir?"  as  he  paused  for  breath. 

"  Yes,  Dinny — to  be  no  bar.     Anything  else?" 

"  Yes,  lots.  It's  got  to  be  run  dacent  like,  for  the 
use  av  the  public.  An',  'specially,  Mr.  Grayson," 
the  words  coming  slowly  and  emphatically,"  'specially 
in  aid  av  the  poor  bums,  an'  toughs,  an'  drunks,  that's 
down  an*  out — in  regards  to  whiskey  like.  They're 
to  be  the  guests  av  honour — an'  to  be  took  in  cheer- 


'/1ND  7he  SH/IDOIVS  FLEE  AW/.Y"    3S1 

ful  anny  hour.  \\\^\\\.  or  day;  an'  washed,  an'  I'c  1,  an' — 
an'  coinl'ortcd,  like ;  'specially  when  they  haven't  an  ly 
money — m"  got  kicked  out  av  soniewhcres  else. 
iMebbc  it'll  cost  a  lot,"  the  pale  lips  added  retkct- 
ively— "  but  there'll  be  plinty  lelt,  yes.  there'll  be 
pliuty  left.  Might  that  there  be  writ  down  all  ri^;ht, 
Mr.  Grayson?"  he  asked  anxiously  as  he  sank  back 
exhausted  on  his  pillow. 

It  was  duly  finished,  signed,  witnessed  by  two 
men  summoned  by  the  lawyer  from  an  adjoining, 
house — and  Mr.  Grayson  took  his  last  farewell,  hur- 
rying from  the  room  as  he  struggled  to  conceal  his 
sorrow  for  the  loss  of  one  he  truly  loved. 


It  was  three  or  four  hours  later ;  and  the  death 
struggle  had  deepened  towards  its  close.  Patiently, 
majestically,  with  many  a  loving  look  and  many  a 
tender  word  for  those  about  him,  Dinny  gave  battle 
to  his  last  great  Knemy.  Dr.  Leitch  was  there;  Ir- 
win too,  and  Margaret  Menzies,  her  spiritual  face 
lending  its  holy  calm — but  none  other,  save  his 
daughter  alone.  For  when  the  lowly  set  sail  on  un- 
known seas  there  are  few  to  wish  them  Godspeed  on 
their  great  Adventure. 

Yet  there  were  enough ;  and  the  eyes  of  the  dying 
man  were  filled  with  deep  content  as  they  roved, 


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ever  and  anon,  from  one  to  another  of  the  faces  he 
loved  so  well.  Suddenly  he  beckoned  Irwin  to  his 
side. 

"  I'm  awful  happy,"  he  faltered  :  "  I  know  ye'Il  be 
good  to  Nora — she  hadn't  anny  mother." 

Irwin's  tears  fell  fast  on  the  white  pillow  beneath 
him. 

"  An'  I  told  ye — I  told  ye  yesterday — about  my 
will ;  in  regards  to  all  that  there  money  that  was  left 
me — by  a  frind  av  me  own — from  the  old  countr  •, 
like.  I  was  always  poor  myself— but  I  had  some 
terrible  rich  frinds.  I  niver  told  ye  annythiii'  about 
it  when  I  was  well— but  I  kep'  it  all  for  yez,  just  the 

same ii'  ye'll  have  it  all.     An'  if  ye  buy  The  Buck 

Tavern— ye'll  ken  all  about  it  soon,"  checking  the 
word  of  surprise  on  Irwin's  lips — "  ye're  always  to 
keep  the  light  in  the  windy  an'  the  fire  in  the  hearth, 
like.  But  ye'll  find  out  all  about  it  soon — an'  I  know 
ye'll  do  it  right.  Sure  it'll  be  a  grand  place  for  the 
bhoys.  I— I  think  I'll  go  to  sleep  a  little  now,"  he 
added  drowsily;  "an'  I'm  awful  happy;  I  know 
ye'll  be  good  to  Nora.  An'  I  want  yer  mother  to 
take  care  av  yez  both,"  the  wistful  eyes  turning  to 
Margaret  Menzies.  Then  he  seemed  to  fall  into  a 
gentle  slumber  as  the  tender  eyes  closed  softly. 

It  was  only  a  few  minutes  till  he  was  wide  awake 
again,  still  battling  against  death.     Dr.  Leitch  was 


"AND  The  SHADOIVS  FLEE  AlVAV     385 

standing  above  the  bed.  Earnestly,  lovingly,  he 
spoke  of  the  Life  Everlasting ;  of  the  Lover  of  the 
S(nil  ;  of  the  Saviour,  Redeemer,  Guide.  Diniiy 
listened  eagerly,  sometimes  with  unopened  eyes.  All 
at  once  he  looked  up,  the  last  great  light  in  them. 

"  It's  purty  near  closin'  time,"  he  began  quietly ; 
"  I  always  knew  when  it  was  near  hand  the  time  for 
closin'  up — an'  it  won't  be  long.  D'  ye  think  they'll 
let  me  in  where  I'm  goin'.  Doctor?  "  fixing  his  look 
wistfully  on  his  friend. 

"  The  gates  of  it  shall  not  be  shut  at  all,  Dinny," 
Dr.  Leitch  replied  gently,  his  beautiful  face  aglow. 
"  Yes,  your  Saviour  will  let  you  in,  Dinny." 

"  He  got  that  other  feller 'in— that  there  burglar," 
Dinny  returned  simply,  "an'  I  ain't  anny  worse'n 
him.  I'm  bad  enough,"  the  faint  words  spoken  as 
if  to  himself,  "  but  I  didn't  have  much  av  a  chance, 
someways,  ever  since  I  was  a  little  boy— I  was  handi- 
capped purty  bad,  some  ways— but  I  always  done  the 
best  I  could.  An'  there's  wan  thing  comforts  me  an 
awful  lot.  Doctor,  now  when  I'm  lyin'  here." 

"  And  what  is  that  ?  "  Dr.  Leitch  asked  tenderly, 
bending  down  to  catch  the  feeble  accents. 

"  It's  this — I  always  sold  it  pure  ;  niver  anny 
pizen— niver  anny  watter  in  it,"  and  the  satisfaction  on 
Dinny 's  face  was  deep  and  real.  "  I  emp'ied  out  a 
keg  in  the  back  yard  wanst  or  twiced — 'cause  it  wasn't 


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good ;  it  was  kind  av  hard  at  the  time,  but  it's  an 
awful  comfort  now  when  I'm  goin'  before  my  God," 
and  the  dying  eyes  seemed  to  look  far  out,  along  that 
awesome  path  his  feet  were  soon  to  tread.     "  An' 
when   a   man  had  enough,  I  niver  gave  him  anny 
more— don't  ye  think  that'll  help  some.  Doctor  ?  "  as 
the  appealing  face  was  turned  upward  to  his  friend. 
But  before  the  minister  had  time  to  make  reply, 
the  dying  man  went  on.     "  Not  that  I'm  trustin  to 
that— I'm  trustin'  to  Him,  Doctor.     Ye  see,"  gasping 
a  little  as  his  breath  came  short,  "  my  business  kind 
o'  taught  me  that.  Doctor.     I  seen  it  lots  o'  times, 
annyway,  at  other  taverns ;  1  seen  as  how  it  needs 
some  one  to  help  us  home  !     Lots  o'  time-  I've  seen 
a  man— just  a  man— take  some  poor  feller  by  the  arm, 
nice   an'   gentle,   too,   an'   help   him   home.    Well, 
Doctor,  if  a  man  does  that— just  a  man— sure  He 
can't  do  anny  less,  can  He,  Doctor  ?  " 

The  old  minister's  swimming  eyes  looked  down ; 
the  quivering  lips  tried  in  vain  to  speak. 

"  It's  Him  that  does  it  first,  ain't  it.  Doctor?"  the 
pleading  eyes  still  upturned. 

The  minister  nodded,  speaking  no  word. 

"  Well,  that's  what  I'm  trustin'  to,"  Dinny  added, 

nodding  his  head  feebly,  the  words  full  of  childlike 

confidence.    "  I  know  He'll  look  aft.r  me— at  closin' 

time— an'  take  me  Home.     An'  I  know  He'll  forgive 


''AND  The  SHADOU^S  FLEE  AWAY"     385 

me  too ;  I've  forgiven  a  heap  o'  fellers  in  my  day 
myself — I  forgave  Jock  Taylor — me,  that's  all  bad  ; 
an'  I  know  it  must  come  handier  to  the  likes  av  Him 
than  the  likes  av  me — so  I  ain't  afeard,"  the  words 
murmuring  themselves  away  into  silence. 

"  That's  what  He  lives  for,  Dinny — what  He  died 
for — and  He  loves  you.  He  loves  you,  Dinny,"  cried 
the  aged  minister,  leaning  over  with  streaming  eyes, 
the  words  coming  in  broken  falterings. 

Dinny  scarcely  seemed  to  hear.  He  lay  in  silence, 
his  eyes  tightly  closed.  A  little  later  some  sound 
came  from  the  parted  lips.  Nora,  breathless,  bended 
low  to  catch  the  words. 


:e 

n 

/e 


"  Nothin'  in  my  hand  I  bring. 
Simply  to  Thy  Cross  I  cling," 

was  indistinctly  murmured. 

"  Did  you  speak,  father  ?  '  she  asked  awesomely. 

"  I  was  preparin'  to  meet  my  God— don't  annybody 
speak  to  me,"  he  said,  the  gaze  outgoing  far  beyond. 

Silent,  hushed  in  the  presence  of  Death,  the 
watchers  stood  above  him.  Once  again  his  eyes 
were  closed,  once  again  deep  silence  reigned.  But 
at  length  the  shut  eyes  once  more  opened  wide — and 
now  they  were  fixed  on  the  Invisible.  A  look  of  un- 
speakable tenderness  was  on  his  face,  the  lips  quiver- 


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7HE   HANDICAP 


ing  with  emotion,  the  whole  countenance  su 
with  a  transport  not  to  be  described. 

"  I'm  comin",  Kitty,"  he  suddenly  cried,  the 
rising  with  strange  eagerness,  upborne  with 
"  oh,  mother,  I'm  comin'— an'  Nora's  here,  righ 
vvid  me,  mother.  An'  I  done  the  best  I  cou 
our  little  irirl.  I  tried  to  be  father  an'  mot! 
her  ever  since  you  went  away — an'  now  Irwin'U 
her,  till  she  comes.  But  I'm  comin'  now,  m 
I'm " 

The  words  died  upon  his  lips;  but  the  Jo; 
Rapture,  the  Victory,  still  rested  in  light  upc 
face,  now  forever  still  in  the  fixity  of  death, 
day,  the  long  hard  day,  was  done ;  yet  {.here  w 
hint  of  dark,  no  shade  of  evening  there ;  the  hi 
pilgrim  had  passed  on  through  the  portals  o 
Morning,  on  to  the  City  of  God. 


THE   END 


ince  suffused 


:d,  the  voice 
e  with  joy; 
re,  right  here 
t  I  could  for 
i'  mother  to 
Irwin'll  keep 
ow,  mother, 


the  Joy, the 
jht  upon  the 
death.  The 
here  was  no 
the  humble 
irtals  of  the 


■  irrnr-iinTr¥»'  ia 


